Échelle de Cruauté
by metal-mako-dragon
Summary: Dr. Michael Stone of Columbia University has created a scale to measure the severity of evil acts. The more heinous the crime-and the more rational the criminal-the higher the killer is ranked on the scale. He has named it 'Échelle de Cruauté', or 'The Scale of Evil' - sequel to Folie a Deux (Hannibal/Will)
1. Le Monde du Vivre

Échelle de Cruauté

"Dr. Michael Stone of Columbia University has created a scale to measure the severity of evil acts.

Basing his analysis on the detailed biographies of more than six hundred violent criminals, Stone has created a twenty-two level hierarchy of so called evil behaviour, which loosely reflects the structure of Dante's Inferno. He traces two salient personality traits that run the gamut from those who commit crimes of passion to perpetrators of the worst of acts: sadistic torture and murder. One trait is narcissism, as exhibited in people who are so utterly self-centred that they have little or no ability to care about their victims. The other is aggression, the use of power over another person to inflict humiliation, suffering, and death.

The more heinous the crime-and the more rational the criminal-the higher the killer is ranked on the scale. He has named it 'Échelle de Cruauté', or 'The Scale of Evil'."

As he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, Will Graham realised there needed to be a twenty third point tacked on the end of the scale. He was sure, somewhere beneath the flashes of memory that assaulted him and the dark calm that descended over his mind, that the Ripper would appreciate being so unique as to require a classification all to himself.

Chapter 1

**Le Monde du Vivre**

AN:  
>Welcome back followers of the macabre.<br>So this sort of came pouring out over the space of a few days rather than the space of a few weeks as it was supposed to. I guess even I couldn't wait for everything to come together again into some semblance of order, and for Hannibal to enact his plans, taking them to the next stage.  
>As ever, feel free to leave comments on anything you wish and point out any mistakes (I try my best but tend to miss them here and there).<p>

Title translation:  
>"Le Monde du Vivre" - 'The Living World'<p>

* * *

><p>The sound of rain against glass and a soft, almost constant hiss. Her eyes felt heavy and the world was dark. She could smell flowers, a sweet, powdery scent. There was something over her face and a rush of air, then nothing, air, then nothing. She forced her eyelids open. It was difficult, more than it should have been. The slits revealed a white ceiling with an offset square of cool brightness set upon it. Sunshine through clouds.<p>

Alana Bloom had an itchy nose.

When she lifted her arm to scratch, it felt as if there were thick hairs wrapping around her wrist and bicep. She shook it wearily and then managed to look down, chin against her chest. She frowned, feeling woozy. Wires, there were lots of wires. At first she thought that her vision had blurred, then she realised, as she began to feel memory creeping up on her, that she was looking down through the opaqueness of a respirator mask.

By the time she had managed to fumble the mask off there was a nurse in her room and the doctor had been called.

"Alana? My name is Doctor Gareth James," a young face under a crop of dark, black hair said to her, "please relax and let us make you a little more comfortable."

"Where am I?" she asked, shocked by the whispering sound of her voice; hoarse and barely there.

"You're in hospital, you were badly injured," he said as someone began adjusting her bed, tipping her top half up and allowing the rest of the room to come into view, "once we get you sorted I can explain, alright?" she thought she might have nodded but wasn't sure if the doctor noticed as he turned to the nurse, "Janet, could you get the cart? I want Miss Bloom's bp and heart rate, and we'll need a couple of bloods taken."

The explanation he gave, after they poked and prodded and made sure everything was working properly, began to match up with vague, appalling memories lingering around her consciousness. Funny, considerate Agent Hemmingway was on the floor holding his throat as thick red gushed down his white front. There was someone holding her chin up and a hard plastic funnel was jammed into her mouth while she struggled. She couldn't move her hands and there was a cold, noxious fluid gurgling in her throat.

She felt nurse Janet's hand around hers and realised she was crying, the tears choking as she tried and failed to stop them.

It became a litany of nurses followed by doctors followed by consultants followed by meetings with the physiotherapist. Even being in a coma for only five days, she was told, was something that was going to take a long time to get over.

"You don't just get up and start running around again after a couple of weeks I'm afraid," the Physio, Elaine Barber, said through her thin lips, her mousy brown hair pulled back tight into a bun; her eyes were kind behind her rimless glasses. Alana appreciated that, "it's not like in the movies. But you've done good already, Alana. No kidney damage, minor liver damage, the toxins are flushing out. Now all we have to do is get you back on your feet. Don't think we're starting from base-camp."

"Expecting me to scale the north face?" she huffed out with a hoarse smile, "I'm a lousy climber."

"Oh!" Elaine smiled and laughed loudly, making the small hospital room light up with the sound, "That's great, just what I like to hear. Got your sense of humour back already I see. You're going to be fine, honey. Just fine."

She hadn't been brought in with any belongings and the nurse, Janet, ended up letting Alana use her phone to call her mother (_don't tell anyone I let you, _Janet said, _not even supposed to have it on me_). So then the constant litany was followed by visitors. Her colleagues from the FBI academy, academics, teaching assistants, a few students. Her stepbrother and mother showed up as soon as they could get the flight out. She wished that the reunion could have been under better circumstances and told her frail mother not to cry, she would be ok.

Flowers were brought in and replaced the wilting carnations and roses sitting on her bedside table. On two different occasions Beverly Katz showed up, then Brian and Jimmy from the lab. Neither said anything about the two men she had expected to see before now and Alana didn't ask. She lay there and waited, not knowing why she couldn't voice her fears.

After another two days the knock at her door revealed a welcome sight.

"It is good to see you sensible again," Hannibal's smile had always made her feel a little lighter.

"Have I ever been sensible?" she asked with an awkward smile, sitting up in her bed with a kindle in her hands; her mom had brought it and Alana was glad, '_I know how quickly you get bored hun. Don't want you going crazy before we can get you out of here'._

She looked behind him for familiar blue eyes beneath unruly curls but the door closed with no one else to show for it.

"Well, I always thought you the most realistic of my pupils," Hannibal said, walking in to sit down on the chair to her right, between the bed and the window; a small Tupperware was placed onto her bedside cabinet, filled with something which moved like liquid but she could see the chunks.

"Something from your kitchen?" she asked hopefully, distracting herself from asking more pertinent questions, "the food here isn't anything to rave about."

"Spinach and chicken potage. All of the iron and protein you could hope for. Honestly? I think it simply warms the soul."

"I could do with a little soul warming."

His eyes were clear but something was wrong, she knew, something was off. Alana fidgeted, putting her kindle down by the tub. She rubbed her hands together, fingers cold. Hannibal waited, as if he understood perfectly that she had something on her mind and needed to say it in her own time. He had always been so very patient with her. Supportive and encouraging. She tried to focus on those times as a distraction but it failed miserably.

Why has no one said anything? She thought again and again, Why won't anyone talk about him? The thought of it made her eyes water slightly until there was a sheen there.

"Hannibal?" she said after a pause, sniffing loudly and hearing the hoarseness in her voice return, "Where is Will? I haven't heard anything, I thought he would have come to visit. I mean..." she thought of the kiss but knew, she knew, that wouldn't have kept him away; she looked back to Hannibal who was worrying her with the look of sympathetic grief only just evident on his face, "where is he?" she whispered.

"We...no one knows," he admitted, clasping his hands and looking straight ahead, staring somewhere in between the wall and the cabinet, "he has been missing for a week and a half."

"He's _missing_?" she said, her brow furrowing with worry, "wh-what does that mean, missing? Is he just not picking up his phone? Because, believe me, he's done that to me before and you really have to hunt him down. I've heard, when he gets upset, I mean, he can go under for weeks and..."

A hand on hers. Alana halted her words so quickly that she almost swallowed them. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Hannibal looked weary when she returned her stare to him.

"Jack Crawford believes..." he hesitated again, tipping his head down slightly, "there have been incidents, since you were hospitalised."

"Gideon?" she asked, having to force the name from her lips quick enough to avoid a memory of grinning teeth.

"No. Let us just say Abel Gideon is lucky to be alive after Will had his way with him."

"_What?_"

"That is not important, not right now," Hannibal waved over his loaded statement and continued, "Jack believes that the Chesapeake Ripper is responsible for a set of recent homicides," Alana swallowed on hearing the name, "at the third crime scene...he found Will's wallet and identification amidst the bodies."

For an absurd, frightening moment Alana truly believed that Hannibal would say Jack thought Will had lost his mind and killed someone. It was fleeting and sickening and she berated herself moments later for even thinking it was possible. Kind eyes and a soft, jerky smile fluttered in her memory. _I never told you how much I cared about you_, she thought as she started to cry, _oh god I never told you_. She did not need to be told, there was only one conclusion left, but Hannibal voiced it regardless.

"He believes that the Chesapeake Ripper has him."

* * *

><p>It was late and Donald Sutcliffe really couldn't be bothered to stop when he saw the flashing, yellow hazard lights on the road. Just keep driving, he told himself, just keep going and you'll be home before you know it.<p>

Then, just as he was about to pass, he found himself slowing and pulling in. It was difficult to pass people in need, he thought as she shook his head. He stepped out of his car and looked back at a tall figure approaching.

"Need a hand?" he asked, only just then realising that the vehicle was, ironically, a tow truck; then the figure walked close enough to the light from his car to see and his eyes widened in surprise, "_Hannibal?_ Is that you?"

"Donald," Lecter said in his soft accent that Sutcliffe had always envied for its demure quality, "well this is a surprise."

"What happened," he joked, "swap the Bentley for something a bit more practical?"

"Not at all," Lecter said with a smile, "just something I was going to use and, of course, it breaks down on me. The irony is not lost. You would not, perchance, have jump leads in you boot?"

"Actually no," Sutcliffe said, "I don't, sorry. Umm, do you want me to call a service? Bound to be somewhere near."

"Not necessary," Lecter said, "I would prefer to see if I can fix the problem myself first."

"Same old Hannibal," Sutcliffe said, grinning, "what do you need me to do?"

"If you could take the driver's seat and turn the ignition when I ask, I would be most obliged," Hannibal said as they walked back towards the flashing truck, smiling to himself as he added, "I think it might just be a little problem that needs taking care of."

* * *

><p>It had been one month since Jack Crawford had watched Will Graham walk into the crowd, as car horns blared for him to move out of the damn way and the sting of Will's words still struck at him, and he had decided to put his foot down on the gas rather than follow that retreating back and demand answers. As he sat in his kitchen at four in the morning, eating a hazelnut yoghurt at the breakfast bar, he wished, not for the first time, that he had gone after him and given him a piece of his mind.<p>

Made him go back to Quantico with him, even if it had meant facing up to a review board or worse. At least then, he thought bleakly, he would have been safe.

"You know I thought I was the only one who ate those things."

Jack turned to look at his wife standing in the doorway, dressed in a light nightdress under a heavy dressing gown; she looked tired, but then Jack couldn't tell the difference between tired, _sick_ and tired, and resigned anymore. He looked down into the empty yoghurt pot, held in both hands, and turned it slightly.

"I hate them," he shrugged, "but..."

"You were hungry and there was nothing else," she finished for him, walking to the fridge and opening it; she looked up and down, "I'll go to the store tomorrow."

"No, I'll go," he said quickly, "I've been meaning to, just keeps slipping my mind."

"Well, there's a lot on it," she said, "your mind, I mean."

He didn't reply. He knew she didn't want to hear it. Had probably heard enough of it already. He remembered her face when he'd told her, after a small amount of half hearted badgering on Phyllis's part, why he hadn't been home very much recently and, when he had, why all he did was sleep. He wasn't sure what she would think, whether she wouldn't care, would care too much, or would judge him as badly as he did himself. Maybe she did all of them, but what she had said struck deeper than any rebuke could have. Four words said in a low voice as she stared at her hands.

"_That poor, sweet boy_."

Then she had left the room. Left him standing there on his own with the weight of two lives resting on his shoulders. _Not a boy_, he had wanted to tell her, _a man who knew what he signed up for when he took the job!_ Desperate words meant to rid him of his guilt. He couldn't bring himself to say them.

They'd looked back through everything, twice, three times, _four times _over already. Nothing to tell them where Will had gone that night. No sign of his car, no sign of his phone, no sign of just about anything. The hospital had run the blood samples they'd managed to take while Will had been out for the count and had been able to tell them he was suffering from a severe infection but, without further examination, they had no idea where it was stemming from. Beverly had looked back through his medical history but could only see one appointment with a neurological specialist, Doctor Sutcliffe, which apparently hadn't come to anything.

Smoke and more smoke. Even Abigail Hobbs had been sucked into the void along with Will. One whole month and not a trace of either. He had been over and over in his mind, trying to make his theory of her fit. For a frantic few weeks he had even wanted to pin Will's disappearance on her as well. Only Will had been right; usually was, irritatingly. Jack couldn't see her doing the things he had wanted to believe she could. He couldn't see Abigail as the killer her father had been.

He looked up at her now as she closed the fridge.

_Bella, Bella, Bella!_

She was still so beautiful to him, no matter what. No matter what happened she would always be the woman who had linked her arm with his as they walked along the promenade and had told him the names of the constellations. His beautiful, bright Bella.

"Hey, c'mere a minute," he said.

She gave him a small frown but walked over to stand beside him. He reached up and touched her cheek softly before leaning in for a kiss. She tasted faintly of toothpaste. A hand appeared on his shoulder and he leaned back.

"I love you," he said.

"I know," she replied tiredly, rubbing his shoulder, "come back to bed. You'll do no one any good exhausted."

* * *

><p>It wasn't that he was jealous, not really. His home was just as grand and his car was just as elite, but still, Donald Sutcliffe had to admit that he admired the refined nature of Hannibal Lecter's house.<p>

"I am sorry, dinner is not exactly to plan," the door was answered by a subtly flustered Hannibal wearing a chef's apron beneath a deep maroon shirt; he accepted the bottle of wine offered and motioned for Sutcliffe to enter.

"Did you know you have five dogs in your back garden?" Sutcliffe asked, looking over his shoulder as Hannibal walked into the kitchen.

"I am quite aware," Hannibal said, a small quirk to his lips.

"Wouldn't have taken you for an animal lover," Sutcliffe said, "too many extraneous messes."

"They do not belong to me," Hannibal said, "I am watching them for a friend. I hate to ask this of a guest, but would you mind slicing these for me? Finely as you can."

Very soon Donald found himself cutting green peppers into thin slivers while Lecter busied around the kitchen putting everything together.

"Seems like I'm helping out a lot lately," Sutcliffe said as he sliced.

"Yes, I am most grateful for your help with the truck," Lecter said, not even sparing him a glance, "it was fortuitous timing."

"If that's what you want to call it," Sutcliffe shrugged.

A silence which he could only describe as precarious followed his statement. Hannibal pulled a slim rack of ribs from the oven and placed them on the counter before looking up. After a moment's scrutiny beneath those steady eyes Sutcliffe wished he could just shrug it off. Don't start what you can't finish, he told himself sternly, I'm not here to be a dupe.

"Am I wrong?" he pushed further, "Only I read in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago that our mutual friend has conveniently gone missing."

"I do believe he was friends with only one of us," Hannibal said, pulling out a large carving knife from a dedicated drawer.

"Don't beat around the bush, Hannibal," Sutcliffe said, "Will Graham goes missing and all of a sudden I'm bumping into you on country roads and getting invites to dinner. If you're worried I'm going to say something to the Feds about our agreement then don't sweat over it. I'd be in just as much crap as you if I did."

"It did not cross my mind that you would," Hannibal said; _bullshit_, Sutcliffe thought, though he didn't voice it, "but sometimes it is better to test the waters before diving into them."

"Don't tell me..." Sutcliffe looked up, "you're part of the investigation looking for him?"

"I will take it as an insult that you are so shocked," Hannibal said as he finished his carving (perfectly done, Sutcliffe noted with annoyance), put his knife down carefully and walked around the counter, "Will Graham is a very dear friend of mine. I wish nothing more than to see him safe."

"If you're found to have been hiding his illness so you could perform a psychological study, you do realise your career is over, right? Over as in 'never-coming-back' over?"

"I am well aware."

"Wow."

"Should I even ask?"

"Nothing," Sutcliffe shrugged, "just that you must be really into this guy to risk it."

"It is not often that one finds someone they could consider a soul mate."

It was such a surprising confession that Sutcliffe stepped back from the counter to turn and look at Lecter. He needed to see his face to gauge the sincerity there. Only he picked just the wrong moment, ending up colliding with Hannibal as he walked back around the counter, elbow jarred and his hand slipping, sending the knife in his hand straight across his index and middle fingers.

"Shit!" he couldn't contain the curse at the flaring pain in his hand.

"Apologies," Hannibal said strictly as he quickly took hold of his shoulders and steered him to the sink, "I should have warned you how sharp I keep my knives."

"I shouldv'e guessed, I suppose," Sutcliffe said, hissing as Hannibal deftly began wrapping a tea towel across his wounded hand, "your scalpel was never dull, after all."

"Wait here and I will fetch my kit," Hannibal said before leaving.

Well, Sutcliffe thought as he stood, his hand pulsing in stinging agony and the smell of wonderfully cooked meat and fresh vegetables mixing with the iron tang of blood, if he was going to be cut open and then put back together in anyone's house it might as well be Hannibal Lecter's. His stitches had always been the most highly praised when they trained together, as had his incisions.

* * *

><p>Brian Zeller cursed his way around the parking lot.<p>

"I swear, if I find out who owns that fucking Volvo that keeps parking in my spot," he said tiredly, "I'm going to put something in their engine that they'll never forget."

"Sugar in the gas tank?" Beverly suggested with a yawn.

"I was thinking graphite under the distributor cap," Brian said with a shrug, "but if you're thinking gas tank metal filings are better than sugar. Or styrene; freezes up the engine couple of miles down the road."

"I'm not going to ask why you know all this," she said, raising her eyebrows as they finally found an empty space.

"Misspent youth, followed by spending my adult life surrounded by chemicals and chemists. Word of advice? Never piss off a chemist."

"Well, I'm just glad it was my carburettor which was giving mine trouble, or I'd be suspicious."

"I didn't do your car in," Brian almost sing-songed, "come on, I'll get the coffee on if you mock up the charts."

It looked like she was the first one in. Beverly turned on the lights and set about flicking on the various switches on the walls, turning on her myriad of machines, listening as the printer booted up with a series of clunks and whines, logging in at her PC and pulling up the charts she had started the night before. She called Trace and was glad Mallory Dhvarnas was already in and answering the phone. Mallory was new and green, a tiny lab tech who looked about fifteen in her white coat, but she was bright and enthusiastic and Beverly soaked it in. She spent a couple of minutes just talking, because she needed it, and then Mallory said she'd send over the results for the fluid they'd found near the latest body.

Then, once she was done, she printed everything out and headed along to the autopsy room.

Today she imagined Will to be wearing his scruffy blue jeans, the red shirt that she'd always thought he must have had since he was a teenager to get it _that_ faded, sleeves rolled up, and his thick rimmed glasses to ward off having to look anyone in the eye. She imagined that he nodded to her as she entered and she gave him a smile.

"What d'you think?" she said as she opened the third drawer and, with one strong pull, rolled out their latest find, "you would have loved this, but I think you would have hated it too. You don't like traumatised kids, yeah? Me neither."

The silence was telling so she filled it by snapping her fingers a couple of times, listening to the sound ring against the steel walls.

"I think whoever did it has problems with family," she hypothesized distantly as she rolled out the next drawer, "Maybe he's an orphan. It seems like he doesn't get it, or maybe gets it too well. I mean who else takes mom and dad and leaves two kids asleep in the next room to find _this_ in the morning?"

She imagined Will would have said something dryly analytical, maybe like _he wants to foster an independence that he never had _or _he didn't plan well, ran out of time; happens to green killers too eager for their first taste_. Will had never postulated on 'someones' or 'perps' or 'this or that person'; he had worked in 'he did' or 'she did', like they were next door neighbours he was reluctantly getting to know. Beverly had tried, briefly, to change her way of thinking into that dead certainty but it didn't take. She felt too close to them when she talked that way; it had scared her.

She put her paperwork onto the table and sat down, waiting for the others. It always felt wrong, sitting here acting as if nothing was happening. She knew life kept going and they couldn't stop for every bump and hiccup, but the thought of Will falling to the wayside made her insides churn. It was as if the world itself was rolling on without them.

It was quiet and she stared at the wall.

"I know you're ok," she said, hating that she had to whisper it for fear of jinxing herself, "you are, right?"

It was in the quiet that she felt the worst. She looked down at the floor, let out and puff of breath and closed her eyes.

* * *

><p>Phyllis Crawford had decided, on waking up that morning, that she was feeling impatient today. Impatient to get out of the shower because it bored her, impatient to see her husband come home not looking like he'd had another chunk ripped out of his waning ability to cope, impatient to have the nurses stop lecturing her on how much longer she'd have for certain if she would agree to the course of chemotherapy, impatient for things to come to a god damned finish and leave her out of this constant, endless waiting.<p>

Most of all she was impatient to arrive at her appointment and have her weekly dose of being regarded with calm, analytical professionalism and a surprising lack of judgement.

"Good afternoon Mrs Crawford," Dr. Lecter greeted her courteously, as always, "please come in."

Though recently she felt the last one had been tainted somewhat. Not that she resented it, more that she felt she didn't have the energy for it and that, in itself, made her feel like a terrible person. The last thing she needed right now was to think that being selfish was a sin. Yet, feeling sorry for Dr. Lecter even as he helped her was as difficult not to do and it was tiring.

"I've never been good at being truly sure of anything," she said tightly as she sat in the chair, unable to relax, "it's a definite concept. I don't like definites. Or I suppose I didn't before all this."

"Definites tend to impose themselves on our lives," Hannibal agreed, "rather than be something we choose."

"I suppose I should be forgiving," she said, taking a sharp sigh, "only I don't know if that is a definite or not, it's more..."

She hesitated because it was precariously close to being something she actually wanted to talk about. Phyllis had already told herself that she would keep those for herself, or maybe Jack when everything was coming to an end. Yet, when she looked up she found Dr. Lecter watching her patiently, face unassuming and calm, and the words seemed to tumble out without her giving them full permission.

"It is more like forgiveness is a profound state," she said, "I've been having a lot of those recently. More unconscious than conscious. I found myself staring at a tree yesterday. Can you believe that? A tree, as if I'd never seen one before. And I was thinking, look at that, what a beautiful thing. Why have I never noticed what a beautiful thing trees are up until now? Why have I been left with such a small amount of time with which to appreciate all these beautiful things that I'm noticing for the first time?"

She laughed, low and barely there.

"Then you know what?" she asked; Hannibal shook his head lightly in response, "I realised that being profound is so very _boring_. Everything is so overdramatic and time consuming and indulgent. It takes forever and it has no point in the end. I remember the times when I used to be spiteful and angry and passionate and...and it seems so much _more_. Now I know that everyone should cherish being a petty little fool sometimes. It means you aren't dying."

It may have been the first time she had seen Hannibal Lecter genuinely smile, beyond simple politeness. She wondered if most things he did now had the same veneer of fake calm overlaying a tumult of emotion that was a constant in her life. Somehow she couldn't see that for him. The man was a solid state of control at all times, relaxed and seemingly carefree but rigid and reserved.

Only she could see the tightness in his shoulders sometimes, the thinness to his lips whenever conversation steered towards love and companionship. She wished she didn't have to feel so very sorry for him.

"Then you perhaps feel that forgiveness should be less profound?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"I think I've realised that forgiveness is..." she searched for the words, "you don't choose to do it. You can't. It simply happens to you."

"Has forgiveness simply happened to you?"

"I'm in between deaths at the moment," she said with a grim smile that travelled nowhere near her eyes, "things have become a lot sharper and I think I'll just have to wait my turn to find meaning."

"The punctuation at the end of a sentence gives meaning to every word, every space that proceeded it."

"They moved my punctuation mark, Dr. Lecter. They're always moving it. And you moved my meaning."

"I hoped to let you see your own meaning, not manipulate it."

"I'm not here because I want to be here. I'm here because I won't abandon Jack, not again."

"Love and death are the great hinges on which all human sympathies turn," Lecter said, tipping his head slightly to the left and down (lips thinning, she noticed) "what we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others, that lives on beyond us."

As she left he walked her to the door, holding it open like a courtly gentleman, always out of arms reach. She walked through and tipped her head in gratitude. She was at the doorway back into the lobby before she stopped, turned and spoke before she lost the will to.

"Would you forgive him?"

Dr Lecter stopped in his tracks, turning back sharply to regard her as a startled rabbit would a fox. She thought he looked charmingly anxious for all of a couple of seconds before his mask slid back into place.

"I am sorry, who do you mean?" he asked.

"The Chesapeake Ripper," she said, not sugar coating it, "he took something precious from you. I was just wondering how far forgiveness could stretch, if even you could give it. If maybe...anyone could ever hope to be forgiven, even by someone they hate."

He considered it for far longer than she'd expected him to. Honestly she had thought he might politely decline an answer or even ignore the question altogether. Instead, she was given something she did not anticipate.

"I would hope that he would expect forgiveness, as any other would. Whether he receives it in return, that is perhaps up to your factor of 'just happening'."

"You miss him, don't you," she asked, "Will."

"Every day for three months," he said without hesitation, so much so that he seemed to surprise himself with the admission and lifted his right hand to fuss with his tie for a moment, smoothing it flat, "apologies, Mrs Crawford, but I must prepare for my next client."

"Of course," she said, refusing to apologise for her words; she felt they were somehow justified.

Everyone deserved to be reminded of those they loved, she thought, even if it hurt.

* * *

><p>"You really are doing tremendously well," Hannibal said with a small smile as he watched Alana Bloom walk the length of the room without crutches, "quite the survivor."<p>

"I thought it was going to be worse," she admitted, "honestly? When this started I thought I'd never be able to walk again without something there holding me up."

"The human body's ability to adapt and overcome has never ceased to amaze me," he said.

"That why you moved from medicine of the body to medicine of the mind?"

"I believe the same philosophy can be applied to a wounded mind. Time and perseverance: the two great healers."

She stopped when she reached the doorway, holding out her arm to steady herself against the handle. It took a few minutes to build up the need to say it, enough to overcome the want to never voice it.

"No news?"

"...No. There have been no developments."

"I thought Beverly said they might have found his car."

"False alarm."

"Ok. Well..."

The hand on her arm allowed her to walk back to her sofa without fear of falling. It was nice, being home, even if it was difficult getting around. She made do. Like Hannibal said, time and perseverance. Only it didn't seem to work for her mind as well as for her mending physicality.

"You don't actually have to cook me dinner," she said, smiling softly as he sat down beside her on the couch and opened the three pill bottles lined up on the coffee table, "I can just order in."

"I would not hear of it," Hannibal looked affectionately affronted, "I have something very nutritious in store. It will have you running again in no time. Now, I believe you are to take these?"

"Doctor's orders," she said with a wobbly smile, "could I ask you to get me some water?"

"Of course."

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid, but the feeling had been getting stronger and stronger these past few weeks. The dreams had been getting worse, as had the nightmares. Sometimes she couldn't tell which was worse, the nightmares where she screamed and screamed and no one came to help her, or the bog standard dreams where she walked into the lecture theatre at Quantico and Will was standing there, sorting through his notes and wearing that small frown that always wrinkled his forehead when he concentrated.

"Here you are."

She took the glass and then swallowed the pills, one after the other. She finished the water and put it down with a clack on the glass coffee table. The sunlight was low in the sky and it cast odd shadows in the open plan of the apartment, stretching long and thin over the wooden floorboards. She wondered, briefly morose, if Will could see the same shadows she was seeing wherever he was.

Or if he couldn't because...

"I don't know how long I can keep this up," she admitted to the silence.

"I know," Hannibal said, sounding calmly resigned.

"Every day I think about where he is, what he's thinking, what I'm thinking back," she said, pushing her hands into the soft material of the sofa, "and every day I get nothing. There's nothing there and I don't know how long I can last before it eats me alive."

"There is no answer more hated than no answer at all," Hannibal said, looking to her.

"Don't do that to me," she said, her tone blatantly upset; he frowned lightly, "_don't_ sit there and hide behind your methods. I can't have you distanced too. I need someone here, someone who knows what I mean, someone who..."

The hand on hers made her jerk backwards in memory, to the hospital where Hannibal had placed his hand on hers for comfort. A comfort. Yes, that's what it was. That's what she needed. Couldn't she have that? Just that, while she held onto her dreams and her nightmares and wished, just_wished_...

She had pulled him into the kiss before she got the chance to deliberate it. Deliberating would have only stopped her. She was scared that he would push her away but instead there were a few moments of no reaction at all, then a hand. A hand against her back, holding her steady. She was not encouraged but she wasn't rejected. When she pulled back she didn't have the energy to feel mortified.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, "I shouldn't have."

"It is alright," Hannibal said, surprising her, "we are both grieving. Closeness with another is a natural craving when suffering loss. We are both grieving for Will," he looked past her, as if seeing something that wasn't there, "We are both a little lost in his wake."

That they fell back together wasn't something she could claim as inevitability, Alana thought, but at the very least Hannibal's sure hands and warm lips kept the nightmares at bay.

* * *

><p>By the time she pulled into her driveway Beverly Katz was in tears. She couldn't stop, she just <em>couldn't stop<em>. She wanted to, so very badly, but she couldn't.

The last time she had cried like this had been at her father's funeral. That same inability to stem the sheer emotion welling up inside and flooding out. She berated herself for it, felt thoughtless for it. And the stupidest thing, she thought angrily as she locked her car and jogged to the house, had set it off.

"Hey hun?" she heard Nigel calling from the kitchen as she clumsily locked the door, "Did you get that white wine? Just this sauce has turned into kind of a disaster area, so, yeah I think we should just drink the bastard instead of using it to..."

Hurrying down the corridor had been her plan; quickly into the bathroom, calm down, tidy up, no one would have to know. Only once she was inside and she heard Nigel's voice it only made it worse. She stood leaning against the corridor wall with her hands pressed against her mouth. When she looked up he was standing in the doorway staring at her in shock, sleeves rolled up and apron around his waist. Another two seconds passed and suddenly she was enveloped.

"Oh god, is everything alright?" he asked quickly, his hug tight, "Did they..." he started delicately, "have they found him?"

"No," she said, her voice tainted with sobs as she shook her head, "it's nothing I just, god, I just feel like shit today."

"Hey, ok, it's not_ nothing_," Nigel said with a small laugh of disbelief, "you don't breakdown for nothing."

"It's stupid," she said, pulling back a little and hugging her arms around her waist, "god, I'm such an idiot, I just..."

He backed off and waited for her to talk in her own time. She appreciated it even though she wished he would just hold her again. It had felt nice, curbed the irrational fear in her. She looked back to him and wiped her eyes harshly.

"I was..." she cleared her throat, "I was driving out from work and I turned right, you know to come home? Automatic. Then I remembered you wanted wine, so I had to drive right up to the intersection and back and..." she shook her head, "you remember Will's boyfriend, right?"

"Dr. Lecter the head chef?" Nigel said, lifting his eyebrows and letting out a sigh, "after his in depth lecture on the proper way to make dauphinoise potatoes how could I forget him?"

"He made two comments, Nigel, honestly," Beverly shrugged off Nigel's rebuke, hands on her hips, "anyway, look it's just I drove back past work and I guess Alana Bloom has been coming back in to do a trial run of lectures again. She was pretty bad after the attack and it's taken her months just to get back on her feet so...god, I'm rambling aren't I?"

"You sure are," he smiled.

She took a breath and felt foolish.

"I saw them kissing in the parking lot," she said finally, shrugging even as she felt tears escaping down over her fraught smile, "and I ran a red light doing it. I just thought..." even thinking it made it seem real, "I just thought that's it, isn't it. Will's gone and we're never going to see him again. If someone you love gives up on you, you're gone right?"

"Oh Bev," Nigel shook his head, looking like he'd love to give her an answer that he didn't have.

"It's been four moths Nigel," she said as if he were trying to argue with her, "and nothing, not even a ransom, not a body part in the mail, _nothing_."

"I know," he said, nodding.

"He doesn't deserve it," she said, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, "Will. We should have been there for him and we weren't. Now even Hannibal's given up on him. I can't stand it, _this_. We just keep going on as if nothing has happened, but it has and no one wants to say it. Fucking hell, I hate this."

Nigel seemed to understand it was time to move back in and Beverly returned the hug this time. She held him as tightly as he held her. She realised she was no longer crying but the horrible, sinking hollowness hadn't left her.

"How long would it take you?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

"To give up on me?"

"I wouldn't," an instant answer as Nigel pulled back enough to look her in the eyes, "not ever. Even if they showed me a body I don't think I could really...jees this got morbid. Put it this way," he said, kissing her softly, "I love you, I'll always love you and as far as I'm concerned there's no one else for me. And if Doctor Prissy Pants wants to give up on Will then let him. Doesn't mean you have to."

The smile was almost involuntary but she was thankful for it regardless.

"Oh god," she managed to laugh through her choked up throat, smothering the sound into Nigel's shoulder, "_please_ don't ever let him hear you calling him _prissy pants_."

"Well he is," Nigel said, looking pleased that he'd managed to put a smile back on her face, "I mean who wears a green, blue and yellow plaid suit in this day and age?"

She laughed into his shirt and let him continue deconstructing Lecter's fashion sense. Somehow he'd managed to find the mote of rationality she'd overlooked.

_Doesn't mean you have to_. And she wouldn't.

* * *

><p>Half three in the morning and Donald Sutcliffe was woken by, what proceeded to sound like, something falling softly down the stairs. He blinked, patted around for the light switch, and had an odd moment where he opened his mouth to tell Barbara to stay in bed while he checked it out.<p>

"God," he said to himself, rubbing his face as he sat up, "get a grip."

Two and half years since his divorce and he still found himself waking up expecting to see her face. A spike of jealousy gnawed through him as he got up and grabbed the baseball bat from his cupboard. He wondered if David, what was his second name? Brass? Brissen? He didn't care. He wondered if he gave her as good of a life as he had or if the they were just poor schmucks together now. He always ended up wondering spiteful things when he woke up alone.

He took a deep breath and reigned in his temper, just a little, holding the bat tightly as he walked along the landing to the top of the stairs. There was nothing there. He crept down the stairs slowly, careful not to catch the ones that creaked. The living room was quiet and a little cold, the kitchen smelling slightly of onions, but he couldn't see a lurking intruder or anything out of place.

He sighed roughly, rubbing at his face.

Like he didn't get enough sleep already, he thought as he trudged back up the stairs to bed.

* * *

><p>It was dark and the phone was ringing. Jack Crawford jerked awake with a snort and pulled himself up against the headboard, reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp. He heard Phyllis moving beside him and quickly answered the shrill ring.<p>

"Yes?" he asked tersely.

"Jack..." a voice said, barely audible, "Jack..."

"Who is this?"

"Jack... it's Will."

"Will?" Jack's brain tried to snap him wide awake, "wh-"

"I don't know where I am," it was recognisable now, Will's voice, though somewhat hoarse and soft.

"Th-think," he ordered blearily, "Do you remember where you were taken?" do something, _do something._ He scrambled for the covers while memories of Miriam flashed through his head, "_Will_? Speak to me!"

"I can't see anything," Will said after another agonising moment, "I was so wrong. I was so wrong about everything. Please... Jack... I don't want to die like..."

_Beep beep beep beep beep..._

Jack sat with the dead line in his hand until he realised Phyllis was pulling herself up to sit beside him, her face concerned and brow furrowed in a frown. Jack Crawford felt sick to his stomach and furious all at once. His head swam and he put the phone down heavily even as he was unable to let go of the receiver.

"What's going on?" she asked.

He looked at her and swallowed, hoping that the sheer panic did not show on in his eyes. Reaching out to touch her face was the only grounding thing he could think to do.

"I have to go into work," he said.

* * *

><p>"I already told you, it was the same, almost word for word," Beverly said, "I looked at the transcript of the conversation you had with Miriam Lass, and Will's is almost identical. And no, before you ask, I couldn't trace it. It didn't even show up on your records."<p>

"Just like last time with Miriam," Brian said, shaking his head.

Sombre. That was how Jimmy Price would describe the atmosphere. Grave. Their boss, always a driving force, looked like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was at that moment. In a truth which Jimmy would never voice, he thought Jack Crawford looked like he was as culpable for Will's disappearance as the Chesapeake Ripper was.

"Let's go over this one more time," Jack said eventually, "maybe there's something we missed."

Nearly five months down the line, Jimmy Price thought as he looked around the room at the cork boards carefully covered in papers and photographs, and the similarly stacked table, he really didn't think there could be anything they'd missed. But maybe the phone call could reverse that, he thought, the phone call that gave them all hope even as it taunted.

"I've been through his notes a thousand times," Beverly said, sounding tetchy, but then Beverly always did when someone pushed for evidence that wasn't there; she was pragmatic and thorough, more so than any of them Jimmy thought, "everything is still the same as last time we looked."

"Most things he left us aren't very helpful, I guess Will kept what he thought in his head and didn't write them down," Brian said, lifting up a printed sheet of paper and scratching his jaw "only thing we have is this. He hadn't changed his profile on the Ripper other than a few scribbled notes."

"Tell me," Jack said, rubbing tired eyes.

"You already know them," Brian said without thinking.

"Then let me know them _again_," Jack said loudly.

Brian nodded, refusing to argue, and focused on the paper in his hands.

"In the margin beside 'he thought of himself as an esthete, a superior being to those lowly creatures whom he slaughtered' he's written..." he cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows once, sharply, and tipped his head in resignation, "he's written 'because he is' in black biro."

Well, certainly sounded like something a madman would write. Not that Jimmy hadn't always suspected that Will was more than a little unhinged, just that they generally never really saw it on paper. It was the sort of note, Jimmy thought as images of Gideon shifted through his head, that someone able to nearly kill a man with his bare hands would make. But then Jimmy had always liked Will; he was fiercely intelligent, loyal and didn't hesitate to speak his mind, no matter how it sounded when it came out his mouth. Jimmy felt his diverse feelings were difficult to reconcile.

"How bad was Will's fever exactly?" Jimmy asked, looking to Jack.

"...Pretty bad," the man sighed, looking away, "think it peaked at one hundred and eight."

"Jesus," Beverly shook her head, "he was lucky to be standing. He must have been out of his mind with something like that in his system."

"Well," Brian continued, "the other notes are just as, umm, controversial. The last one is the only one which makes it sound like he was maybe making progress. All it says is 'Bressinden, hyphen, Personal, full stop, Empathy, question mark'."

"Will found something out about Bressinden's murder, we've already got that," Beverly said, picking at her lip with thumb and forefinger, "but what? He sent me a text that night, said he was looking into something from home. But he also said," she leafed through a couple of papers on the large desk between them before finding what she needed, "he said 'I keep thinking about the things we're already missing' then 'why was Bressinden so personal, why leave a note'. There's something in there, something about the page left in Bressinden's mouth."

"The _Iliad_," Jimmy said, tapping a few keys on his laptop to bring up an enlarged photograph of the torn page on the projector, "attributed to Homer. Full of blood and gore, I guess that makes it relevant on some level."

Jimmy heard the door open but was too busy talking to turn and look.

"And liars," Jack said, staring at the blood stained lettering, "why do you think the Ripper chose this particular page? And why tear it in half?"

"Perhaps it is what is different," came a familiar voice from over his right shoulder; Jimmy looked up to find Hannibal Lecter standing there, oddly subdued in a grey glen check suit and matching tie over his white shirt, looking up at the projector screen, "and not the same, that we are supposed to see. I am sorry I am late, I was detained unexpectedly."

"Nothing major I hope?" Jack asked.

"Domestic issues," he said, smiling politely, "nothing to worry over. I..." Jimmy looked up when Lecter hesitated; he didn't think he'd ever heard the man do so before, "you told me you had a phone call."

"It was Will," Jack said defiantly, as if expecting to be questioned, "I'm certain."

Lecter watched Jack for a few seconds before breaking eye contact and looking down at the table before him. Not that Jimmy would ever dream of saying it to the man in person, but he thought Lecter looked reasonably lost at the news. He watched as the man leaned down against the table with both hands, weariness evident across his slumped shoulders.

"Then he is alive," was all Hannibal said, closing his eyes.

"I'd stake my own life on it," Jack said.

"The phone call was just like Miriam's," Beverly said; Jimmy wondered why she was giving Lecter the cold eyes but didn't speak up, "nearly word for word. We think Will was being made to recite it."

"Will always told me that Miriam was different, just like he insisted Bressinden was too," Jack stated, "he said that the reason we never saw a body was because the Ripper had no reason to humiliate her, just to get rid of her. Said he might even have respected her."

"She found him," Hannibal said, "not many can claim that."

"You think he'd do the same for Will?" Brian asked, his brow held low, "I mean Will was hunting him, actively hunting him. Will said the Ripper thought it was a joke we were even attempting to catch him. Wouldn't he find Will funny then, the same as everyone else?"

"I don't think so," Beverly said, frowning as she picked up a picture of Bressinden; Jimmy noticed that Hannibal was watching her intently.

"What is it Bev?" Jimmy asked.

"I just..." she shook her head, rubbing at her right eye, "Will thought the Copycat was showing off for the Ripper until he realised they were one and the same. Then he said the same thing in the car remember? He thought the Ripper was just 'showing off'. What if...what if the Ripper was showing off for Will?"

"Why pick out Will?" Jack asked, although he sounded interested, "Why not all of us?"

"Because not all of us had a relation to David Bressinden," Beverly said, "and Will seemed to think there was something different about that kill. Maybe the Ripper wanted to, I don't know, give him a gift? _Impress_ him?"

"Well it seems kind of pointless," Brian said, "I mean how would he even know if Will was impressed or not?"

"I don't know," Beverly admitted, "but it's something."

A natural break in conversation. Jimmy swallowed down the need to chip in and looked at the disarray of papers on the table, trying desperately, he thought, to lead them somewhere useful if only they could see it.

"Jack," Jimmy heard Hannibal walk around behind him as the tall man approached Crawford, "may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Yeah, of course," Jack nodded before walking with Lecter outside, the doors closing behind them.

* * *

><p>"I don't understand why I'm even here, to be perfectly honest with you agent Crawford."<p>

Jack had already decided he didn't like Donald Sutcliffe. The man was all smiles and pleasantries, but there was an underlying frustration and coldness there that didn't sit well with Jack. What was it Will's addendum to his profile had said? _A convincing monster who smiled and laughed before gutting you unawares_. Yeah, Jack thought as he watched Sutcliffe under the hot lights, he could see that.

"You're here because it has come to our attention that you have links to an ongoing investigation," Jack said, "into the disappearance of a William Graham. I believe you treated him, about two months ago?"

"Treated might be a little presumptuous," Sutcliffe said, holding up a hand, "he was referred to me by a colleague who thought he might have been suffering from neurological issues. I did a scan, ran some blood tests, even had a follow up appointment but he never kept it. I didn't find anything and I never saw him again after that."

"And that colleague was?"

"Just a colleague," Sutcliffe said.

"Answer the question, Mr. Sutcliffe," Jack said, sitting back in his chair and regarding him coldly.

"His name's Hannibal Lecter," Sutcliffe said, trying to make it sound light but the name came out heavy, "I guess you know him."

"Sure do," Jack said, not looking as surprised as Sutcliffe would have liked he was sure, "so you wouldn't have had contact with Will Graham through Dr Lecter?"

"None _whatsoever_. I've been to Hannibal's maybe twice for dinner since he contacted me, and not once did I see, speak to or even hear of Will Graham. I don't think you could really call me part of your investigation if this is all you've got, agent Crawford."

"Well, in fact, that's not exactly all," Jack said with faux hesitation, leaning forwards to clasp his hands and regard Sutcliffe, "you see Dr Lecter came to see me yesterday. Told me something interesting about your wife, Barbara?"

"What the hell does..?" Sutcliffe bit out, sitting up straight, face furrowing.

"Said that you were telling him about an affair she had with a man named David Bressinden," Jack said.

"I'm sorry," Sutcliffe said angrily, "do you mind telling me what the damn my private life has to do with Will Graham?"

"As I said, it's part of an ongoing investigation," Jack shrugged, looking unconcerned, "although I am sure you heard about it, right?"

"About what?" Sutcliffe all but shouted.

"David Bressinden's rather unfortunate end," Jack said significantly, "No? It was all over the trained as a surgeon before moving into neurology, isn't that right? I heard you were pretty good too.

"You see, Will's case isn't as simple as a missing persons. We're also on the lookout for a bigger fish. You work near the George Peabody library, don't you Donald?"

A telling silence in which Sutcliffe sat in his chair, staring, before he backed down into it and put his fingers to his lips, rubbing the flesh. He looked up at the agent standing impassively by the door before turning back to Jack.

"I want to call my lawyer."

* * *

><p>"Last time I fucking do anyone a god damned <em>favour<em>."

He'd been stupid, stupid and greedy. It was always a failing, it wasn't like he didn't know it, just that he had difficulty dealing with it. And Hannibal Lecter had exploited that fact, just like the man did best.

Donald remembered him, oh he remembered him, because at the time he'd envied him just as much as he still did now. Hannibal the top of the class master of anything you put in front of him. It was spiteful to watch him rise up, always being two steps behind. Watch him sweep the Novartis Research award with that fucking paper on the bio-mechanical properties of tissue-engineered grafts implanted into the arterial circulation.

"You piece of shit," Sutcliffe said as he put his foot down on the gas and overcompensated as the wind buffeted the car, "why do you even _remember _that? Couldn't stop watching him succeed could you? Now he's here fucking you over!"

Well the lawyer would see about that. He was out under suspicion because they had nothing to hold him on except a hunch (yeah, sure, he thought, a hunch brought on by Lecter he was sure). Once he got home and sorted his head he was going to make an appointment with his lawyer at his office and sort all of this madness out.

Best case scenario they suspended his licence and he could move to another practice discreetly. Worst case scenario he lost his job and the stigma followed him like a bad smell.

"Ah fuck," he said, feeling his face fall and wanting nothing more than to beat something until his hands bled, "_fuck_! Fuck, fuck, fu-!"

If he'd had both hands on the wheel, he thought, he might have been able to pull out of the way faster. As it was, he barely swerved the oncoming car. His heart raced as he spun the wheel and slammed the breaks, listening to the squeal of tyres and the shattering sound of something heavy and metal rolling down a hill. Crash, crash, _crash_, hiss.

Donald Sutcliffe sat, shaking and panting clumsily as the wind raged outside, his hands tight around the wheel of his car. He peered up into his rear view mirror, only just able to see the underside of the trees lit up by white steam and red brake lights.

"Jesus," he said, his voice shaking, "oh god. _Shit_."

He stumbled as he left the car and had trouble closing it against the stormy gale, hurrying over to the bank. It was steep, leading down into a thick mess of trees, with the truck ploughed deep into the trunk of one, splintered and buckled. The bonnet hissed out steam and the cabin was still.

"Anyone..." Sutcliffe shouted over the wind, realising his voice was wavering and clearing his throat, "anyone ok down there!?"

A creak at the car door. He sighed in relief, closing his eyes, then started scrambling down the bank. It was a difficult, steep and not much purchase, but he made it, tumbling a little as he reached the bottom just as the door opened. A man fell out onto the dark grass, thick black coat and black fleece hat. The wind was blessedly stemmed down by the forest.

"Hey, I didn't see you coming," Sutcliffe said as the man wavered to his feet, recovering quickly, "you crazy bastard, you were going the wrong way! You nearly hit me! Are you...are you alrig-?"

He wasn't allowed to finish. The man sprang like a poised cat, grabbing his left shoulder in powerful, gloved hands and wrenching. Sutcliffe called out in alarm, trying to back up, but he tripped on the roots of the trees and the slippery leaves. The man was on him, dropping his knees to either side of Sutcliffe's thighs. Donald tried to scramble backwards but found his hands grabbed and held while a soft, powerful smelling cloth was clamped over his mouth and nose. He struggled wildly, letting out incoherent, muffled yells as he tried to shout, tried to call out...

It was as he hauled in his first lungful of chloroform that he caught sight of the man's face, blinking red, black, red, black in the stuttering light from the tailgate.

Hannibal Lecter looked as if he were regarding a small, mildly interesting insect which had crawled onto his shoe.

* * *

><p>Miriam Lass found it difficult to walk what with the ringing in her ears and the woozy shake in her head. She stumbled against the car door, the knife in her right hand grasped tightly, and listened to the hissing sound of steam escaping into the cold night air. Scrambling up the bank was even harder. She couldn't let go of the knife, she thought over and over, don't let go of it, don't let go of it.<p>

She looked back to the car behind her, ploughed into the tree, the bonnet furrowed like a discarded candy bar. The man behind the wheel wasn't moving. She wanted to take her eyes off of his leaning form but she couldn't.

At the top of the verge she found the road. She wobbled dangerously on the edge, nearly tipping back towards the slope, but found her balance and walked out onto the dark asphalt.

The sound of screeching tyres didn't reach her until she turned to find twin bright lights illuminating the darkness. She looked up, shaking, wide eyed and numb, as a woman stepped out of her car and held a hand to her mouth.

"Oh my god," the woman breathed, "are you _ok?_"

Miriam dropped the knife and fell to her knees.

* * *

><p>"She's alright?"<p>

"Yes Jack, she's ok, just a bit shaken up."

The ground and the walls were alight with dancing red and blue lights, and sirens as further back up arrived. It was windy, blowing a gale more than they needed, and they huddled around the SUV as Jack Crawford stood amongst them looking like a bull ready to break the door down.

"But she can't tell us where Will is?"

"She doesn't know," Brian added, grabbing at his hat at the wind picked up, "She can't remember much."

"Does she remember stabbing Sutcliffe to death?" Jimmy asked,

"Yeah, yeah she remembers that," Beverly said, "not that she seems too rough about it."

"Can't blame her," Jimmy added.

"Look, what we need now is _focus_ people!" Jack shouted over the gusts of the storm "We're searching his house as we speak but so far, nothing useful other than the hell he has in his basement."

"What, he got some sort of torture dungeon down there or something?" Jimmy sounded like he was trying to joke to lighten the mood.

"Don't joke about it Jimmy," Jack said darkly, "you'll see the photos soon enough. Anything from Sutcliffe?"

"Just what he had on him," Jimmy said, looking abashed, "wallet, phone, keys."

"Brian, you take the phone, see if he made any calls, see if he has _anything_ in there that can give us a clue," Jack said quickly and Brian nodded, rushing off, "Beverly I want you through his finances like a house on fire, you got me? Timeshares, rented property, storage lockers; he has it? I want to know about it."

"I'm on it," she said, nodding determinedly as she pulled on her hat, keeping her hair from flailing wildly.

"Jimmy take the wrecked tow truck and Sutcliffe's car, it's in his garage."

"Right away!" Jimmy turned and hurried to the nearest tech to begin having the vehicles hauled to the lab.

An hour and a half later Jack got a call from Beverly Katz that made him pump his fist in the air, regardless of the looks he was getting from the agents around him.

"He has a cabin up near Midland Park, I'm sending you the details," she said as Jack rushed for the parking lot, "looks like he must have paid in cash but the security deposit had to go through a transfer. It came from Sutcliffe's account. I called the owner but I can't get a reply."

"You know where it is?"

"Heck yes I do because I'm sitting outside it right now."

"Wait for me, _do not_ go in there alone."

"I'll be here."

By the time Jack arrived, a cavalry at his heels, Beverly Katz was standing by the front door of what appeared to be a pleasant cabin in the woods, hiding on the porch from the downpour of rain which had started half an hour ago.

"It's locked!" she called as Jack, agent Conrad and agent Benning rushed to her side while the others set up a perimeter.

"Conrad, get it open!" Jack shouted.

The stillness of the cabin was belied by the belting of metal against wood followed by rushing feet and thundering rain. It seemed too homely inside, too cosy and nurturing. Jack, weapon drawn, hurried through the living room with its sofas and its fresh flowers, out into a short hallway with his team at his heels. He looked back and signaled the other two to one room, and Beverly to join him. They sidled out purposefully, each taking up position.

Jack counted down with his fingers; three, two, one, _crack_ as wood splintered and they rushed in. Jack darted into the dark room with Beverly behind him, weapons up. A small bedroom greeted them, cold and unlit and empty.

"Shit," he heard Beverly curse.

"Agent Crawford!" an urgent cry from the next room stopped his heart from plummeting.

The other room was not dark, instead barely lit and filled with a smell that clashed with the comfortable and domestic setting; it smelled of hospital.

"I knew it," Beverly said with a guttural joy in her voice as she stood beside him, staring into the room where agent Conrad and agent Benning looked back, holstering their weapons, "I _knew _it."

Despite the pallor of his skin, his closed eyes, the slightly sunken state of his face, the wires slinking up against his skin like leeches and the plethora of machinery he was hooked to, if the EKG machine by the bed was to be believed then Will Graham was alive.

Jack Crawford holstered his gun and, without warning, let out a whooping yell of triumph.


	2. Cruel Pour Être Gentil

**AN:** Happy Halloween Fannibals! I think this might be a suitably Gothic chapter in keeping with the season. Let the games begin...

Also if you would like a reference for the 'Scale of Evil' (as it is featured and referenced heavily in this chapter) here is a link : : / / scaleofevil . blogspot . co . uk /

Title Translation: "Cruel Pour Être Gentil" - 'Cruel to be Kind'

**Chapter 2**

**Cruel Pour Être Gentil**

Wings fluttering. Soft against his face.

The sound of animal nearby. He could hear it.

_Open your eyes_.

He tried: Heavy, leaden, immovable. Could he remember the last time he had opened them?

The wings moved and there was snort; hot breath, the smell of spicy fur. Smoke.

Eyes on him. He felt watched.

He thought he could hear water running, sounding like the murmur of many voices.

Sinking. Slowly sinking. Gone.

* * *

><p>"Do you remember how it felt to kill?"<p>

"Yes," he replied, "it sizzled and it raced. My heart in my throat, demanding to get out. Demanding to remind me how it tasted."

A moon in the sky. Dark trees. His feet sank into the snow and he stared upwards, grinning.

"Do you remember how it tasted?"

"Bitter. Tangy."

Running paws, _crunch crunch_, running breaths, _huff huff_. Their prey was loose. Breaking free of the stifling hold on his legs he jumped forwards across the landscape, rushing past in a blur of bark and bare branches.

"Like blood?"

"Like regret."

All around him they panted. His heart raced and he heard the braying at his side. Antlers of polished ivory delivered a sight of feverish delight._Their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion_. Panting, milky breath vomited out through clenched, het-up teeth and gums. The pack ran black blood in the darkness where it could not be seen. A grin stared back as he glanced to the trees as they passed, a smudge of charcoal grey; teeth missing, blood pouring, fists aching. The smile remained.

"No place for regret in the head of vengeance?"

"Vengeance is just, yet justice is not vengeful. Don't reconcile me."

Climbing now, climbing high on the slopes where idiots lay and festered, squalling upon the crags and cliffs. They grabbed at him as he rushed, between lolling tongues and roughs pads of paws, between proud racks of antler born fiends and the devastation of hooves. Their prey was close, so close he could smell the tang of sweat.

_No place for things you love in the bone arena_

There, laying on the bare rock. He snarled, dropped to all fours and leapt. Hands around a bicep, another in soft hair. It all came away so easily and dispassionate eyes watched him. An approving smile graced bound lips as Will bared the man's neck and sank in his teeth until warm, arterial blood filled his mouth. All around him the animals pawed and clopped.

The summit reached, the moon laid bare in a sky which seemed more a roof to a cage than a bright freedom. He bent back his red stained neck in offering and howled.

The dogs howled with him.

The stag brayed in the night.

* * *

><p>There was a bird calling in the trees. He felt groggy, like the first light of morning before eyes are opened. Will wanted to open his eyes and find it, something to focus his irritation. It wouldn't stop, <em>cheap cheap cheap cheap<em>, over and over again, regular as an alarm.

Tired, he was so tired. He hoped it would fly away soon.

Sunlight on his face, he could feel the warmth, see the faint glow of red through his eyelids.

A murmur of water. He tried to wriggle himself comfortable on the warm fur he was lying against. A shadow of antlers across sunlit flesh.

Something touched his face.

He took a deep breath and slipped back down.

* * *

><p>The bones popped out of joint. Hobbs' face grinned at him, milky eyed horror, and his limbs moved across the velvet darkness like worms ravaging a corpse. All swerving and undulating until the man's mouth yawned open and a feast of hands crawled up, out, followed by wrists, arms, shoulders, faces.<p>

The young girl march began to the sound of no fanfare. Will sat in his chair and watched, his hands tied together, palms pressed flat.

_He ate us. We are never to return._

A memory of a painting focused his mind: Goya, _Saturn devouring one of his sons_. A misshapen, haunted stare and a gaping mouth with no regret. The first child crawled from its tomb behind rotting teeth and stood before Will, all dripping blood and vitriol.

_She baited us. He honoured us. Where is our justice while you play at happiness?_

He wished he could hang his head. Her eyes were fierce and he could not face them. Another joined her, hauling out of the womb-mouth until Hobbs had no face left to bear fruit.

_Your love is your crime. You let yourself fall even as you knew the truth._

No chance of a reply. His mouth was sealed shut. He closed his eyes in shame and wished he could understand. His eyes snapped open, down to his hands to see them wrapped at the wrists with rough rope. They opened like the pages of a book; blood dropped from above like rain. Snap! Palms closed. The warmth oozed between fingers. Open again to a Rorschach of pain and garrotted hopes.

A girl's face stared out in profile, mirrored, a hook through her mouth and the line pulling.

_Did you know the cuckoo calls at the last hour? It mocks._

Will looked up to find Abigail before him, her forehead streaming blood from her hairline; running down her face as spikes, antlers growing, blossoming, shedding. He couldn't bear it.

_He will not miss you when you are gone. Perhaps his greatest sin. You could be dead tomorrow; another amusement frittered away._

The chair felt as a mercy seat. He waited for his judgement though he could barely understand his crime.

_You mean nothing to him. None of us do._

* * *

><p>A rare fit of consciousness surged; stronger than the rest. Not a dream, not a nightmare, not the limbo in between. Will grabbed it before it could escape.<p>

"Wh-what..?" his mouth managed to mumble.

Cold, it was cold. He couldn't feel the blindfold against his face yet he couldn't open his eyes. There was an incessant, low beep keeping regular with his heart. _How long have I been out?_ Moving seemed to be out of the question other than the vague slurring of his lips.

The chemical smell of antiseptic sat like a cloying layer. Even if he had wanted to try and grab the arms which lifted and rolled him onto his side he was incapable. Misty limbed and reluctant eyed. Everything lay like a dropped dummy in a store window, manipulated into any shape necessary by unseen hands.

"Don't..." he managed, mainly lost to a huff of breath, "let me..."

As a contrast to the building dread that came with his awakening, a soft touch was placed against the back of his neck. The fingers rubbed gently, soft cloth beneath them. Will felt his breath speed up. Move, move, _move_, he urged his groggy limbs. Deadened nerve endings did not reply other than to inform him exactly where fingertips stroked over his collarbone.

_Don't touch me_. His fingers shook against the soft material on which they lay. _Don't fucking touch me._

There was a soft sound of plastic being scrunched between fingers; the sound of metal against metal. Something tugged against his flesh, mollusc-like.

"Please-_ah..._"

A rushing feeling, and a pain in his forearm. Words already half formed ran from his lips like rain down window glass, congealing upon the sill. Everything faded back to the inside of his own head.

* * *

><p>A metal slab in a clear void. There was a body there, beneath the white sheet draped over, he knew there was. Had seen enough to know when a corpse was in the room with him. The silhouettes phased in one by one, dark all around him against the stark, white backdrop. Outlines he recognised.<p>

"Tell us what you see, Will."

Jack, broad and intimidating, stood to his right, hands on his hips.

Will reached out and pulled back the cloth. Lawrence Wells lay there, face calm, serene, even as Will pulled further and further to reveal his dismembered stumps.

The totem rose silently from the ground behind him and spread its arms. The lake emerged as if from the mist, a silent morning full of ice flows and snow drifts. Eyes on him. _You are watched. _From behind the pillar the stag-man peered, his vital claws shiny against carapace torsos.

"Tell us what you think, Will."

Beverly appeared to his left, a hand on his shoulder. Another white sheet pulled, this time revealing a hole which peered down onto a dinner scene, the players in their places. Beverly passed the salt and Will took it with a nod of thanks. Hannibal had commented on the food, _Will had known he would_, and Will caught Beverly's stare as her fiancé replied stiffly. They shared a smile because it was _long suffering affection wasn't it? To know what someone would do before they did it? _And when he passed the salt to Hannibal the man purposefully brushed his fingers with delicate fingertips. He did not appreciate public shows of affection, for which Will was glad (he didn't like them either), which made the contact all the more precious. A warm stare between them. Will felt his lips quirk.

The stag-man sat in the corner, watching, observing, his face impassive.

"Tell us what you feel, Will."

Zeller's black, silhouette hand pulled away the next without waiting for an order. Will felt his chest seize up and tried to back away. The ebony skin of the human stag glistened as it rutted into the body beneath it. Will saw himself on his knees, bent at the hips with his chest and arms splayed across the polished metal, eyes screwed shut and mouth open as he gasped in elation with every violent thrust. The stag turned its white stare to him as it lay down across his naked doppelganger, like an unfiltered incubus, a living nightmare of ravishment.

"I think he likes you, Will," Price's shadow said with humour, standing before the slab and marking something down on a clipboard.

A braying clop. Will turned away, putting his back to the nightmare even as the very act made his skin crawl. Behind him he found the stag, feathers ruffled in an unseen wind. It bobbed its proud head and pawed at the floor, pulling up runnels of dirt on the white ground. Will rushed for it, throwing himself against its side, burying his hands in the fur and his face in the ruff around its neck.

_You are watched_.

He could feel the eyes of the stag-man on his back. Things began to crumble. Footsteps, soft but clear, gaining on him, closer, closer. The great, round, glassy eye of the stag looked at him as it turned its head. Will shook, dropping to his knees as the stag lowered itself to the ground.

No, he wanted to plead, please _don't_.

Inside, its gaze told him. The footsteps grew closer. Inside.

A curved hunting knife in his hand and the stag rolled onto its side, soft fur exposed, mud strewn hooves inert against the pale ground.

Inside, inside, inside.

Oh god.

_Inside, inside, inside!_

_Oh god._

The spray of ruptured viscera as Will opened his mouth and rammed the knife into the stag's belly was fulfilling. He felt his lips shaking open further, accepting the blood as a libation while he pulled and pulled and opened the stag to the air, steaming and screaming.

Closer, closer, _closer_. A hand, long claws black as pitch, crawled over his shoulder. A terrific pulse of fear. _Escape! _Will pushed himself forwards and rammed his hands into the cut, harder and harder, pulling apart flesh and bloody membrane. _Inside_ he crawled, _inside_ he hid, _inside_ he could feel the pulsing heartbeat and the rusty feelings of those he had tried to delve within. _Tell us what you think, Will_.

A perfect peace. His nose filled with the iron tang. It was dark, black, serene. Encased as in an abyssal womb, thrumming with energy and life._Inside._

Then a sudden disturbance crept inside, a new feeling. He should have stiffened, should have cried out, should have felt the same fear as before. Only now, as the stag man slid out of the darkness behind him, joining him in the tight space, and his arms slipped around Will's chest and his teeth sank into his neck, everything seemed to click into place.

Everything seemed so very _right_.

* * *

><p>Whistling. Was it whistling? Something high pitched, like a kettle boiling over. He was overly aware of the breath being pulled into his lungs, exhaled out in a rush, in, out.<p>

His mouth felt thick, tongue heavy. When he blinked open his eyes it was a shift from black pitch to pitch black. That he'd managed to open them at all was not lost on him just, at that moment, it didn't seem important. Not much did.

He felt hot. His back pressed against something solid but warm. He moulded to it, his head fitted against bone and skin. A sound of soft breathing above, to his right. Rhythmic, soothing.

Something hard and cold was pressed from his cheek up to his ear. He tried to turn away from it, frowning, but a gentle palm against his cheek kept his head steady. He felt dizzy as an elongated ringing startled out from the chill.

Third time it stopped, replaced by a drowsy, irritated voice.

"Yes?"

"_Jack_," the voice at his ear whispered; the whispering lips, the whispering lips were holding him.

"Jack..." he repeated on instinct, his mouth clumsy, "Jack..."

"Who is this?" a concerned tone.

"_Jack it's Will_" they whispered; not the gentleman's drawl he'd expected.

"Jack...it's Will," he followed.

"Will? Wh-" definite panic.

"_I don't know where I am_."

"I don't know where I am," he cut the voice off, the palm at his face moving until fingers stroked over his cheek, tender.

"Th-think! Do you remember where..?" the voice at his other ear was severe; Will frowned as it continued, losing the ability to comprehend the stream of demands. It was irritating. He wanted it gone. The fingers at his face were soothing, he leaned into them.

"_I can't see anything._"

"I can't see anything," he couldn't, he thought, he couldn't see a damn thing.

"_I was wrong. I was so wrong about everything_."

"I was wrong. I was so wrong about everything," what was he wrong about? Why did he have to say it?

"_Please, Jack_"

"Please...Jack"

"_I don't want to die like this"_

"I don't want to die like..."

A sudden fit of beeps sprang to life, enough to rival the constant, steady procession in the background.

"...this," he finished, escaping like a sigh, "where..?"

"_Shhh,_" the fingers at his cheek were removed, replaced by dry pressure and hot breath. A kiss, soft and fleeting, "_you did so well._"

Something moved through his hair. He managed to roll his head, feeling himself slot into what felt like the crook between a neck and shoulder. There was a spicy smell there; spicy wood, a hint of smoke. He breathed it in as he descended.

Back down into the abyss.

* * *

><p>A vital ecstasy. It slipped in and took root. There was something moving inside of him. He pushed his hands against the ground for purchase and they sank. He threw his head back and let out a cry as the hard heat inside of him pulsed. He wanted it.<p>

_Blind hedonist_. He didn't care.

"I have a weakness for beautiful things."

The voice at his ear had him whimpering. On all fours on the sinking, wet, floor while he was violated. The intimacy was rare, something he did not allow. So seldom given, so costly.

_Please_. Such a fool; you ask for your own humiliation. _I need it_.

The sinking reached his elbows. The sucking substance rippled as he breathed out, stuttering against it as his body rocked in time with every squirming thrust. Powerful hands slipped around his waist.

"To know my own feelings are returned. You give yourself to me."

_I have to_. Did you even ask? You let him have you while everyone else is kept at arm's reach. You gave yourself up for judgement but the jury is lost. _I love him._

His chin dipped into the running pool. _Sinking, sink, sank._

"Dear Will. Dear Will."

He was ground down into the running, dark waters, his mouth open in keening ecstasy.

Find me, find me, find me.

Dear Hannibal.

_Do you remember me now?_

* * *

><p>When Will finally opened his eyes to more than just all encompassing darkness, he almost didn't realise the significance of the act. He blinked lazily against the pale, artificial light in his eyes. When he realised he was staring at a ceiling he frowned, his forehead barely wrinkling.<p>

Look left, eyes straining to reach the corner of his vision: a dark window set into a white wall.

Look right, managing to barely roll his head: a chair and a man with his face looking down at a book in his hands.

He tried to open his mouth but his lips felt stuck together. It took far more effort than he had expected to push his tongue up and out, separating the dry, glue-like substance holding his mouth shut. He licked his lips and took a breath. When he looked back to Hannibal the man was watching him with a small, genuine smile upon his face and warmth in his eyes.

A lie? His brain asked wearily. Just another lie. I'm dreaming about you.

It seemed to take forever to lift his right hand, propping it against the rail along the side of the bed. A mocking sensation of cold metal against his wrist (it's not real, Will, don't let it fool you). Hannibal watched him for a few seconds before he appeared to grasp Will's intention (don't get your hopes up), reaching out to wrap long fingers (oh god) around his shaking hand (_oh god he's real_).

Will closed his eyes tightly, unable to stop the croaking sound in his throat. The fingers tightened as he opened them again, watching as lips were pressed against his fingertips.

"Nor-" Will cleared his throat, hating the dry, irritated feeling stuck inside his mouth; he moved his tongue around, trying to gather some saliva to swallow, "normally I...wake up a-about now."

"So do I," Hannibal smiled, leaning against the rail on his elbows, Will's hand clasped firmly between his own; then the man turned his face and pressed his cheek into the palm, breathing deeply. Will's finger's twitched and his chest contracted.

Were there tears against his face? Will blinked, the pooling liquid trickling down to scurry into his hair.

Oh god.

Oh god it's _real_.

He closed his eyes and was unable to stop himself drifting.

When he awoke there was a young woman with red hair standing with a male nurse in green scrubs, talking softly by his bedside. Will swallowed and then opened his mouth.

"Hey," he said, causing two pairs of eyes to jump to him, "where's...doctor Lecter?"

"Ah, my names Mellissa Haggerty, Will, your consultant," the redhead said with a smile, "your doctor will be here soon. His name is Colin Gregor."

"No," Will shook his head as far as it would go, "he was here a minute ago, _right here_, I need to speak to him..."

"No one's been in here, Mr. Graham," the nurse said, "I've been working at my station just across the way and visiting hours are over. You must have been having a dream. Coming off the sedation can play tricks on your mind."

"He...was _here_," Will insisted tightly, trying to sit up, "I felt it...my hand."

"Please try not to move Mr Graham..." hands on his shoulders.

"Let me go," he growled, baring his teeth, "don't _fucking touch me!_"

"Get the doctor," the nurse told the redhead sternly as Will struggled against his iron grip, "we need the doctor in here now!"

"Hannibal!" Will heard his voice break as he tried to claw his way from the bed and the consultant rushed from the room, "_Hannibal!_"

* * *

><p>It would take a while. That was what Will Graham told himself as he lay, half curled on his side, left arm stretched out flat for the IV ven-flow. It would take a while.<p>

The first three days he didn't touch his food because it sickened him. His stomach rejected it as much as his mind did. He didn't speak because it seemed a waste. The words that made to leave his mouth were harsh and unpleasant. Violent. Too close to home.

He refused visitors and the nurses didn't seem to think that was a bad thing. Will wondered how far their understanding would stretch considering what he'd been through. Considering what he was capable of.

He remembered Gideon a lot in those alone-days. Sometimes he wanted to ask what had happened to him. Sometimes he wanted to ask the date, just to hear it again and cement in his mind just how long he'd been absent from the world. Sometimes he wanted to go home. Mainly he wanted to stay there, exactly where he was, and not ever move again.

On the third day he was able to lift himself with his arms and push himself up the bed with his legs under the covers. The physiotherapist visited. Some uptight woman with rimless glasses; a pretentious socialite, Will thought, and probably easy to offend.

"Honestly?" she said, sighing as Will avoided her eyes, "I've never seen someone in as good a shape as you after such a prolonged coma. Your muscle atrophy is minimal, joints haven't suffered, no bed sores. I think you'll find recovery a breeze Mr Graham. Someone must have been taking very good care of you."

Obviously no one had told her, Will thought. He couldn't stop the words leaving his mouth.

"Oh yeah," he smiled down at the bedcovers, "must have been in his spare time between drugging me senseless and disemboweling people. Chesapeake Ripper keeps a busy schedule, you understand."

She hadn't been the same with him since. Not that he cared. The week he spent stonewalling everyone who turned up at his door was immensely satisfying. Will retained his bubble for as long as it would last.

Yet still...he listened for every name announced by the nurses through a half opened door; _Jack; Beverly, Brian and Jimmy; Alana; _even _Reggie _from the evidence room and a couple of his more eager students, _Heather and Graeme_. No Hannibal.

The want to see him almost outweighed the need to stay as far from his life as possible. The need to see the man in the physical that his dreams had almost convinced him only existed in the incorporeal.

Did I dream you? he sometimes wondered after he woke to the nurse walking into the room backwards, hauling the drug cart with her. Were you ever real? He told himself that it was. It was all real. For some reason that was difficult news to swallow.

He had dreams that turned into nightmares, nightmares that turned into dreams. His subconscious told him he was able to walk and he found himself stalking the corridors of the hospital, scalpel in hand; Elaine Barber the physio ended that particular jaunt into the dark places displayed upon the reception desk, split groin to gullet, her severed hands pinned to her skull, covering her ears. _No listening, no touch. No place for you in my world._ He had left her glasses on because it amused him. Will hadn't woken up with a gasp of disgust in his throat as he normally would. Instead his eyes slid open and he pulled in a tight breath through his nose.

As if to smell the tang there.

Then, as he lay breathing steadily, he began to wonder how far his own understanding of himself would stretch.

* * *

><p>"So I hear you've been making a nuisance of yourself already."<p>

Will looked up from leafing through photographs of decapitated corpses to find Jack Crawford in his doorway. A week and a half into his hospital stint and he'd given up on self imposed isolation for fear he'd fall back into the abyss he'd only just managed to crawl out of, or so he hoped. Beverly had beaten Jack to the punch by one day. It had been difficult to refuse her after her third try.

Will licked his lips, looked down to the mess of files scattered over his bed, boxes by his bedside cabinet, and shrugged as Jack closed the door, shaking his head.

"What can I say, you've been busy while I was gone," Will said, putting down the photographs onto the cabinet and trying his best to shuffle everything into some sort of order.

"Oh, I _can't imagine_ why the nurses don't like you," Jack said with a restrained laugh, picking up an enlarged photograph of a neck wound from the bed covers, slit from side to side.

"Beverly brought them for me," Will explained, sniffing and holding out his hand; Jack handed over the photo and Will put it with the others, "you have three bodies already, right? One man, two women, no pattern. Thought I could contribute. Nothing better to do."

"A little light reading?"

"I'm bored."

"Who wants to see this sort of stuff when they're bored?"

"I do," Will said rubbing his face with both hands, "keeps my mind off...other things," looking at a black one shade greyer than pitch helped, or so he hoped. He sighed and avoided Jack's eyes before looking to the window, "how have you been?"

"Can't complain."

"Yes you can."

"Well I can," Jack nodded, pulling the chair in the corner over to Will's bedside, "but it would seem a bit much complaining about being overworked and stressed when I'm sitting next to you."

"Don't worry," Will said with a dry quirk to his lips, "I can't remember most of mine."

Making it sound like a loss was almost humorous. In the end Will was sure he wouldn't want to remember.

"Temporary or..?" Jack left it hanging.

"Can't say," Will shrugged, scratching at the underside of his forearm when the tingling there became unbearable; he took a deep breath, _don't let it get to you_, "he had me in a medically induced coma for five and half months," _doesn't seem real but it is, it is_; he cleared his throat and continued almost seamlessly, "I read something once about people remembering things from when they were under, voices, conversations, but I don't think that would help me."

"Why not?"

"He didn't talk much," Will said, "just...moved things around, moved me around and..." Will blew out a puff of air, "didn't talk other than to tell me what to do."

An awkward silence. Jack moved in his chair and Will finally dragged his eyes across the room to glance at him. He looked haggard, Will wouldn't lie. His skin was slightly sunken, deep bags under his eyes and a haunted look about his shoulders and mouth. Will wasn't sure what they could say to each other. Jack seemed to have been left with all of Will's lost time weighing on his shoulders. It was draining to watch. In truth, one lost soul in his hospital room was enough for him, never mind two.

"How many times were you..." Jack searched for the word, eventually deciding on, "lucid?"

"Uhm," Will swallowed, frowning uncomfortably, looking down at his hand as he counted them off with crooked fingers against his palm, "maybe four? I think I remember four that were different from the rest. But if you're only counting me being awake enough to be able to talk, then two. I think once was a mistake; I woke up while he might have been changing the sedative. I heard bags, plastic. Not sure. The second was phoning you."

"You remember that?" Jack looked surprised.

"Sort of," Will said; the vague memory of soft kiss against his cheek has his stomach turning and he rushed on without stopping, "I'm full with 'sort of's' right now. I don't remember much after leaving your car that afternoon."

No need to state which afternoon, Will knew they both remembered it all too well.

"At least now you're more than 'sort of' safe," Jack said.

"Well," Will sat back against the bed ran a weary hand through his hair; the unremembered memories slunk around in the background, waiting their turn, "sort of."

Jack didn't comment. Will knew why. The man didn't seem overly keen on talking about just how safe Will was; it only left how he'd come to be in danger unsaid. Will could see Jack's guilt in his hunched shoulders and interlinked fingers. The sort of silence he detested the most; Will forced himself to break it, even if he didn't feel like talking.

"Sutcliffe," Will breathed out a rough sigh, leaning back fully to stare at the ceiling, "you know I didn't peg him. Bit of a sycophant, ambitious, edgy, chip on his shoulder. Didn't tack him for a murderer."

"You didn't see him in the interview last week. Guilty as a lark. Think our pressure was what startled him into moving Miriam and that's how the crash happened. He panicked, there was a storm. Bit of a comedy of errors."

"Yeah."

"You don't sound convinced," Jack said, face hard.

"You didn't see him in his office the day I had my appointment. Self obsessed and careful, that's what I would have said. But not homicidally careful."

"You always thought the Chesapeake Ripper would be someone successful," Jack sounded like he was trying to bargain.

"But not overtly," Will said, looking back down into the room, "not an in-your-face sort of success. I always saw the Ripper as a more subtle, considered person. Strange, I guess, to think about someone capable of that sort of theatrical brutality as subtle, but yeah. Sutcliffe was all about in-your-face. He had all the subtlety of a pink penguin."

"...Pink penguin?" Jack grinned, the gloom in his eyes lifting slightly.

"I've been watching too much day time television, stuck in here," Will waved him off, "nature channels. Everything else is trash. My point is that..."

"You point is that the Ripper deviated from your profile and you're sore about it."

"Not sore about it," Will frowned, "just...disappointed."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," Will shrugged, "I always thought he'd be more...well, more. He was the one to catch, wasn't he? The unfathomable one that got away, and away again. Intelligent, careful, considered, controlled," he stopped when he saw the light leaving Jack's eyes, "Now he's just a petty, stabbed up corpse in a basement morgue."

"No more than he deserves," Jack said sourly.

"Yeah," Will sighed, "don't I know it."

There was no real silence in a hospital, Will realised as machines beeped and huffed, people moved about past the doorway. He fidgeted nonetheless and his mind roved to places he'd rather not go but, when he was there, demanded answers.

"Still no..." he sighed, "still no sign of Abigail?"

"Not a thing so far," Jack shook his head, "I have a train ticket out of town, heading to Richmond Virginia, but then the trail goes cold straight after. She doesn't have a credit card to follow and we haven't had any sightings despite plastering her face all over missing persons. Every cop stop in the country should have her postered up on the wall. They see her? We'll hear about it."

"She ran because of me."

"Hey, don't start that," Jack said sternly, "she ran because she thought a lot of things. The people around her were in danger, she thought she was in danger from me, lots of things. She's young Will, no matter how old she thinks she is. She'll come round and she'll come back. They all do in the end."

Will felt the need to name the hundreds of missing kids who _didn't_ come home but sat, withering away, on police lists all over the country. Only he couldn't. The thought was too dire. Instead he kept his mouth shut and let Jack bring the conversation back to where it should be.

"So, we're working on the post-profile. Seems to be fitting together better than you would be willing to agree," Will rolled his eyes and Jack cleared his throat, "wife divorced him two and a half years ago after she was outed in an affair."

"An affair and a divorce?" Will said, "Good stresser for a psychotic break," he admitted begrudgingly.

"And guess who the other guy was. David Bressinden."

"...Really."

"Yup."

"I thought there was something different about him," Will said, nodding, "more personal than the others."

"See? You can't beat yourself up about every little thing," Jack said, his smile dry.

"Don't push it," Will replied far more harshly than he'd meant to.

"Been interviewing his colleagues," Jack continued without flinching, "they wouldn't say he was cold but apparently he had a temper on him. Sort that would burst out loud then be reigned back in. Big house, enough that neighbours wouldn't pry. Big basement too."

"I heard."

"About the circular saw bench and the manacles on the walls?"

"Beverly showed me pictures."

"Seems like Katz has beat me to the punch on most surprises."

"She said he was a surgeon?"

"Two years a neurosurgeon before he changed tack."

"Let me guess. Coincides with the divorce?"

"Bingo," Jack clicked his fingers, "moved into neuroscience exclusively, consultant and academic fields. Wrote a lot of journal articles, not all of them accepted and the ones that were weren't anything groundbreaking. We think he was looking for a project. Something to put him on the map. Spent a lot of time pulling volunteers in for scans."

Will bit at his thumbnail, dragging the hard substance through his teeth. Despite his reluctance to believe the hype around Sutcliffe the thought of what it might have been made his blood race. Fucking bastard, he thought. A surge of images flashed through his head, ending with Sutcliffe slit open from cheek to cheek, Will's hands bloody. He blinked and looked down at his hands reflexively. _Fucking_ bastard.

"You think he wanted to study me."

"I think he _was _studying you."

"What's new. I think I should start charging concession."

"I don't think that's quite fair to the psychiatrists you've had before to compare them to Sutcliffe."

"No?"

"I saw the scans he took, the ones he tried to hide, had some experts take a look at them. You could have died, Will. Would have if he didn't treat you while you were in his...care."

"I've had a lot of shrinks that made me want to hang myself, does that count?"

"You know you're very upbeat today."

"Just a coping mechanism," Will rubbed the back of his neck with rough fingers, "humour works best for me."

"Well, you could always..."

There was a polite knock and then the door opened before anyone could get a word out. He already had his mouth open to give a rebuke when he saw who was there; Will's face lit up. Hannibal Lecter stood in the doorway, the door half closed behind him before he noticed Jack, with a small, very welcome bundle crooked in his left arm. When it saw Will its small, black eyes opened wide, its four stumpy legs began flailing, body twisting, and the most unflattering and yet endearing noise emanated from its throat.

"Hey little guy," Will didn't care how desperate he sounded as he hauled himself ungainly up the bed, the wires attached to his body flapping against bedposts and machinery; Pugsley was deposited swiftly onto Will's bed where he darted into the man's arms, whining and panting and wriggling about as if he were having a fit. Will bundled him into his arms and squashed his face against the whimpering dog.

"I did not realise you had visitors," Hannibal said, expression genuinely pleased, "good evening Jack."

"Hannibal, I see you've managed to survive the strays," Jack said, forcing a similarly contented smile.

"They were surprisingly pleasant," Hannibal said, looking to Will.

"Oh you furry little idiot," Will was smiling, laughing, as Pugsley whined and licked at any skin he could reach, panting like a freight train, "you'd think I'd been gone six years, not six months."

"And they certainly missed you, Will."

Difficult not to hear the subtext there, perhaps because he was so desperate for it. Will glanced up at Hannibal, catching warm eyes and licking his lips. Real, he's real and _real. _His gaze scurried away quickly, back to the contented dog in his arms.

"Well," Jack said, clearing his throat, "I'd better get back. Still have some things to clear up at the office before I head home. I'll come see you again soon. Clear things up."

"Sure," Will nodded, "thanks Jack."

Hannibal smoothed down his coat before he took Jack's now empty chair. Will watched him cautiously. A moment's silence. Then a hand reached out into Will's vision and hesitated only a few seconds before tracing his jaw, the stubble there. Will let out a huffing laugh as Pugsley jumped up to try and lick Hannibal's fingers. Will held him close.

"Thanks," he said, unsure of how to start, "for looking after them. Beverly told me."

"You do not need to thank me," Hannibal said; he looked calmly happy and Will drank it in, "You look well."

"Should have seen me when they brought me in," Will said, his breath coming out in a rush as Hannibal's fingers trailed down his throat before retreating, "I looked like the wild man of Alaska."

"You do not suit a beard?" Hannibal asked, smiling broadly.

"I look like an overgrown bush with a man trapped in it."

"A sight to see, I'm sure."

"Hannibal..." Will lifted his hand.

The door opened and Will clamped his mouth shut on the words '_stop talking_' and pulled back the hand which had been reaching for the lapel of Lecter's jacket to pull the man close. Pugsley let out a sharp bark and Will stroked him, shaking the dog's ears as he looked to the doorway.

"Hey," the word was breathed out from Alana Blooms softly smiling lips.

Then Hannibal stood to offer her the chair. Will sat up and tried to make himself presentable, _even if, guiltily, he just wanted her to leave._ He breathed in deeply and Pugsley whined, looking up at his visitors with a bemused expression. And Will watched as she stepped to Hannibal's side and he

Reached

Out

And

Ran

His

Hand

Down

Her

Back

Settling at the base of her spine.

Will watched and felt the hairs on his arms rise. His staring eyes saw far more than the simple action, his fingers curling into short dog fur, his chest tightening to contain a sound that did not make it to the open air.

Only resounded in his mind like a wounded animal's cry.

* * *

><p>He hobbled to the cafe because Beverly insisted that they get out of the building before it entombed them. It had been on the tip of his tongue, as she stood in his office door and told him what was happening, to tell her to <em>fuck right off<em>. He'd reigned it back in because it was Beverly and that was the only reason.

"Sure," he'd said, even though he knew that the profiler in her was probably reading the subtext of _fuck right off_ in his face and tight posture.

"Good, see you there."

She hadn't offered a lift or any help, and he was glad for that. People were acting funny around him with the crutches, and not funny ha ha; he wished it was, because then he'd be justified in wanting to kick their teeth in. No, instead all he got was sympathy. Lashings of sympathy. After a month of hard work making the nursing staff detest him, he didn't look forward to reasserting his reputation all over again in the Academy.

It was a chill day, the light filtered weakly through grey clouds. Summer had come and gone without him. He felt dull in its wake, pulling his jacket closed and zipping it up. The cafe was small and mainly empty, for which he was glad. They sat by the window at a table without flowers in a tacky vase.

Conversation steered initially towards work because it was easy. They ate, Will barely remembering what it was even once it was in his stomach, and it was only as they sat waiting for the bill that she broached treacherous ground.

"I saw Alana yesterday."

"Yeah?"

"She asked after you."

"Mmm. I'd rather you didn't tell her you mentioned it to me."

"Let me guess. You don't want to have to think of a convincing response?"

"It would be difficult to make it genuine. Unless it was to say something you probably wouldn't repeat."

Beverly finished the last of her orange juice and placed the glass back carefully on the table, her fingers lingering on the condensation covered surface.

"How long has it been?"

Asking what she was referring to would have been nothing more than an obvious stall. Will sat, lining up his used cutlery perfectly at the twenty-past of the plate before he replied.

"Long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

"To not expect an apology."

"Wow."

"What?"

"Well, it's just..." she shrugged, sitting back in her chair, "I would have thought you were looking for more than just an apology."

"Would _you_ want him back?" Will asked, forcefully folding his napkin.

"No, but then I'm not you."

"Oh, great," Will couldn't stop the grunt of humour escaping, "that's great, thanks. Think I'm a push over, is that it?"

"I think you're in love," Beverly said bluntly; Will's hands stuttered and he dropped the napkin to the floor. He watched it as she continued, "and I think that you need to tell him before you lose him; prick that he is."

"Maybe I'm not interested in getting any of it back," Will lied, "maybe it would be best if I just didn't bother, ever again. I could be a hermit. Being a hermit suits me."

"I can't disagree with the truth," Beverly smiled while Will stared at the middle of the table, biting the inside of his lip, "but honestly I think I'd rather see more of you than less of you."

"I think I get it now," Will said, smirking, "you're not working for Alana, you're working for Jack."

"Not guilty," she held up her hands, smiling, "although I think that you better watch your back when you're able to run, jump and hop on your own again. Jack had so much success with you on the team that even Prunell couldn't deny it."

"Is he getting a commendation," Will asked, "for the Ripper?"

"Worse," Beverly said as the bill arrived, "they're trying to promote him."

"Oh, he'll _love_ that," Will said wryly.

They halfed it and Will threw in the tip. The sky had darkened while they were inside, threatening rain as they walked back to work.

"Are they giving you anything for it?" Beverly asked while they waited at the lights.

"Yeah," Will said, "my job back."

"Their generosity never fails to amaze me."

"It could have been worse, they could have still forced me through the review board for what happened with Gideon."

"They were really still going to do that?" Beverly asked, looking surprised.

"Yeah," Will sighed, stopping to adjust his crutches beneath his armpits, "until Jack put in an appeal. I think the proof that I was suffering from advanced encephalitis was enough to quell their bloodlust. Still, no fieldwork for a while. Kind of a blessing in disguise."

They parted ways at the compound entrance, Beverly walking up to the main building while Will walked the long way round to the Academy annexe to set up his lecture.

"Don't scare your new students too badly now," she said; Will could tell she was just forcing a sociable face on things but he didn't comment.

* * *

><p>Will clicked the pointer and the digital slide changed to a long list of well laid out words. He looked back to his class. No need to look at the screen when he had the thing memorised.<p>

"And this is it, something you should be familiar with already," he said, "Stone's scale is loosely divided into three tiers. First are impulsive evil-doers," he clicked again and a blue line appeared against the scale, delineating the numbers he referenced, "those driven to a single act of murder in a moment of rage or jealousy. Next are people who lack extreme psychopathic features," another click, another line, this one yellow "but may be psychotic — that is, clinically delusional or out of touch with reality. Last are the profoundly psychopathic," the last line was red, "or as Stone says himself, "those who possess superficial charm, glib speech, grandiosity, but most importantly cunning and manipulativeness. They have," he emphasised the words as he spoke, "no remorse for what they have done to other people"."

Quiet but for keys clicking and eyes watching. Normally he would have stood up and walked around, made it easier on the tension, but he was confined to his chair. It felt suffocating but he ignored it, pushing on.

"Alright," he said, "so you've seen it, hopefully studied it. Laid out all neat and tidy. Only life isn't neat and tidy, as you know, things don't always fall into happy little delineations. People aren't that considerate. So," he looked up to the gloom of faces, "how about a little start of term test."

It wasn't a question and yet he could almost hear the worried groans as his students looked to each other. _No one told us there'd be a test_, he thought would be the main complaint running through most heads. Well, life wasn't considerate in its surprises either, he thought as his eyes slid to the crutches leaning against his desk.

"Right, it's simple. I call out a name, you tell me where on the scale and why," another click and a familiar faced popped onto the screen.

"Ted Bundy," Will called out; he searched the two hands that sprang up immediately before others began crawling up; he pointed to a young, pale woman with brown hair, "what's your name?"

"I'm Fisher," when she hesitated Will rolled his hand for her to continue, "oh, uh, s-seventeen."

"Very good," Will said, "but I don't want lucky guesses, tell me why."

"Bundy was a sexual predator," she said, voice losing its shy waver, "lured and killed at least twenty eight girls that we know of as he worked his way down through Florida in the seventies, and continued killing after he escaped from Colorado prison from nineteen seventy seven to seventy eight. He was a sexually perverse psychopath."

"Exactly," Will nodded, "rape was his primary motive and his victims were killed to hide the evidence. Although, once he got a taste for it, murder became part of his MO, so don't be so quick to pigeonhole him. Right, ok," he clicked, "John List."

This time he selected a young, black man with high cheekbones in the front row.

"My name is Grant," he said, his voice a rich baritone, "I'd say List was either eight or ten. He didn't kill because he was a psychopath, he killed to get rid of spectators like his wife and children, they witnessed his failure, but his mother, well, there's some that say she was a rage killing. That there might have been resentment there..."

"Yes, nice, thank you," Will said, lifting a hand to halt Grant as he opened his mouth to continue, "Now you're getting it. The scale isn't a be all and end all, it's a guide. Don't be hemmed in by it, _use_ it, flex it around what you need to understand these people. Now: Cindy Campbell."

A hand shot up; Will pointed.

"Cheryl Lawson, sir. I'd say she ranked at three. She didn't actively commit murder, claimed to be driven to asking her partner to kill her parents as she was a victim of incest."

"Good. Let's jump the other way. Kallinger," Will selected someone whose face he couldn't properly see; the far left of the lecture theatre was blocked by a bright light.

"I'm Heather, umm, twenty-two because he started with terrorising families with his son but his motives became sexual when they killed and raped a nurse here in Baltimore."

"That is a well stated point, although I would say that you're missing a heavy link to the twentieth part of the scale. Kallinger was diagnosed as a schizophrenic and the motive of ninety percent of his homicides was based firmly in the prolonged torture of his victims. If you want a clear cut case of a Twenty-two look no further than Dahmer," Will said, precisely annunciating his words, "now let's get a little bit up to date. The Chesapeake Ripper."

He picked at random, "Fourteen," said a female voice, "he was..."

"No," Will cut them off, picking another.

"Eighteen, he didn't seem to prolong..."

"No," Will interrupted again, his voice blunt and loud, he picked another.

"Twenty?"

"_No_," he said, moving on quickly, "come on people," he picked again from the blinded left hand of the theatre.

"All of them and none of them."

The words 'good, _very_ good' had been half way to his mouth before he choked on them. He recognised the voice. Couldn't _not_ recognise that voice. Will hesitated, licking his lips, and then lowered his pointing hand.

"Yes," he said, staid, "that's right. Good. Right," he cleared his throat, _just keep going_, "I'm not saying that the scale isn't applicable to the Chesapeake Ripper, but it's a little more complex than your answer," Will could imagine the subtle smile there on full lips, "he spans so many of the categories that it renders the scale a little pointless: there's a little bit of eight in his early kills, then some eleven and twelve when necessary to keep his identity a secret, a bit of seven in David Bressinden, then a heavy dose of fourteen and then we're up into sixteen, and remember Miriam Lass she adds a twist of twenty-one. And even after we've ploughed our way through the numbers he has traits not mentioned in the scale at all, such as the bizarre level of empathy for the killers he helped to complete their work, Lawrence Wells, Elliot Budish, maybe more, maybe even Garrett Jacob Hobbs."

He stopped when he realised he had lost track of the rising enthusiasm in his voice. Will sat back in his chair and checked his watch. Looking back up to the source of the voice still gave him no view. He cleared his throat and rounded up.

"What I was trying to get at with this demonstration," he said, "is that the scale is a useful tool, very useful because it groups together traits, makes a nice, level stereotype for you to cookie cutter out basic, working profiles. It can even show you progressions: killers always move up the scale, never down it. But," he paused, "be cautious. Never work in absolutes because absolutes only exist in your mind, not theirs. You can't get a better example than the Chesapeake Ripper because, while he may be dead, he redefines our understanding of a psychopath and how they operate. When you move into your own investigations or your seniors ask you to mock them up a profile, and they _will _spring this sort of stuff on you when you don't have notes to hand or time to revise, remember what the human mind is capable of. Remember the scale but don't be defined by it."

Rapt silence. Will couldn't say he didn't enjoy it.

"Alright, that's all for today," he said, "you've been sent the lecture timetable, so read up on the next topic before coming or you will be put on the spot," the sounds of people standing, clearing up paper and closing down laptops, "Any questions then email me, the address is on the slides which I will have up on the intranet later today," the sound of footsteps down stairs; Will stood up with help from the desk as support, leaning against it heavily, "and I have a drop-in hour at three on Wednesdays, although I can't always guarantee I'll be in."

When he looked up he was glad to see it wasn't who he had expected. Grant stood by his desk, waiting patiently, and Will focused on his papers as the student remained to be acknowledged. The sound of the door whumping shut but further footsteps still audible made Will's shoulders stiffen.

"Have a question Grant?" he asked as he shuffled his lecture notes into precise order and slid them into his briefcase.

"Yes," Grant said, sounding cautious, "actually...I was just wondering why you called every killer by their names except the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"I would be cautious," said the voice from behind the veil, approaching the pool of light to reveal Hannibal Lecter dressed in a subdued navy blue, "psychoanalysing your lecturer could give you dire results."

"I...I wasn't intending to..." Grant said, surprised.

"Yes, you were," Will said as Hannibal gave Grant an effortlessly supercilious look, "and are also quite aware of my involvement with him, I'm sure. Let's just keep any inquiries to relevant ones, ok?"

"Right, sorry," Grant nodded to Will but didn't cow tow; Will liked that.

"Good work today," he said as the man turned to leave, "you have a keen, inquiring mind. Keep that up. Just don't turn it where it doesn't need to be, alright?"

"Thanks," Grant said, a small, triumphant smile on his face; he looked as if he would say more but, after a look between Hannibal and Will, turned to leave.

Will sorted the rest of his notes, his slide layout, turned off the projector and limped his way to his crutches with his palms flat on his desk, before he acknowledged Hannibal at all. Even then, it was only to realise that the man had taken Will's briefcase and jacket, carrying them without a word. Will inhaled and then swallowed, staring at his things in Lecter's hands.

"Next time I'd rather you just made an appointment," Will said, turning to walk towards the doors, "or call. You have my number."

"I was not certain whether you would answer if I called you," Hannibal said, walking a step ahead so he could hold the door open for Will.

"So jumping out of my lecture theatre like a jack in the box is a better option?" Will asked firmly, edging his way through the door.

"It appears to be working so far."

"Don't hold your breath."

"I thought that we could perhaps be civilised about this. It appears I was wrong."

"Take all of your degrees to figure that one out?"

"Actually I think a person would have to be deaf and blind not to sense your animosity."

It was light and airy out in the corridors of the third floor, far more than the cramped feel to the offices on the sixth and the cold atmosphere of the lower labs. Will was glad that, being on crutches, people moved out of the way for you automatically, because he wasn't watching where he was going. When he looked up Hannibal was holding another door open for him, leading to the elevators. He wished he could just leave but Hannibal had his things and there was no easy, dignified way to storm out on crutches.

Hannibal called the elevator and they waited.

"I had thought," Hannibal said, making Will shift about in annoyance, "that we might remain friends Will. Yet you have not contacted me in over a month."

"Do we have to do this here?" he asked.

"We could go somewhere private, if you prefer?"

"Not really."

"Well, then here is as good as anywhere," Hannibal said, continuing, "is there any chance that we might realign?"

"Not while you're still testing me," Will said acidly.

The elevator dinged open, blessedly empty, and Will went first. Hannibal followed him with a slightly curious expression.

"Do explain," he said once the doors closed.

"Explain your own ideas to you? Is there any point?"

"I don't think I..."

"God, you must think I'm a _complete_ moron," Will said, unable to stand it; he turned to Hannibal, staring at him angrily, "ever since we met you've been doing it. You must have thought you were so damn subtle. Always testing me, _everyone's_ always testing me aren't they. You tell me I'm crazy and then you wait until I ask for your help; you tell me you don't want to be my psychiatrist anymore and then you wait for me to come crawling back to you, begging for it. You force me with revelations about Abby, keeping things back and then, when I react, hauling them out in the open to see what I'll do. You force me with the needle just to see, you watch me, fucking _watch me_ with Gideon..."

The ground floor dinged and Will snapped his mouth shut as the doors slid open to reveal three people waiting. They moved out of the way as Will hobbled past, Hannibal behind him. The lobby was busy at this time of evening and Will navigated carefully, heading for the separate elevator down to the car park. Once they stepped inside and the doors closed on them again, Will opened his mouth, unable to stop the sharp words.

"It's not the fact that you're with her that pisses me off."

"No?" Hannibal asked as if curious about the weather.

"You're not interested in Alana."

"I would say that is not entirely accurate," Hannibal said, "she means a great deal to me, but I am not dull to your meaning. We were convenient for each other."

"You don't even deny it," Will said to himself incredulously, shaking his head, "you know, I think she probably sees it as more that just convenience."

"That would be unfortunate."

"Fuck, listen to you," Will bit out, his temper flaring, "toying around like an indecisive child. Does any of this matter to you? At all? What was I? Just another _convenience_?"

"Certainly not," Hannibal smiled, watching the buttons for the floors light up as the passed, "you are very much an inconvenience for me, Will. Yet I care for you nonetheless."

"Oh shut your damn mouth," Will said, "I don't want to hear it."

"No need to be impolite," Hannibal said, though his smile was still in place.

"I've got every reason to be impolite," Will said, hauling himself quickly out into the chill of the car park as the doors opened, "especially when you're projecting."

"It seems you are not the only one being psychoanalysed today," Hannibal said, tipping his head left and down, lips slightly pursed as he followed Will to his car.

The rhythmic clack of his crutches on the hard floor rang out like a staccato heartbeat, followed by slower, calmer footsteps. Will leaned against his car before unlocking the boot to slide his crutches inside. When he looked up from his task Hannibal was putting his jacket and his briefcase into the backseat. Will used the car as support to reach the driver's side door. He had the door open as the question stopped him

"If I may ask," Hannibal said, "and I hope I am more qualified to than your students, why it is that you do not call the Chesapeake Ripper by his given name?"

Will stood stock still. A foolish notion drifted through his mind. _Don't say it_, his mind told him sternly, and yet he had already crossed that line a long time ago. What was it Beverly had told him? Everyone thought Jack had pushed him up to the edge and now he was pushing himself over. At the time he'd felt indignant to the notion of, as Hannibal put it, his _self abuse. _Now...he knew he had. What was the point in hiding behind words and pleasantries? You've been through enough shit, he told himself, why don't you just live your life without trying to please everyone else for once?

"I don't call him by his given name," Will said as he turned with difficulty to face Hannibal, standing pristine behind him under the artificial lights, "because Donald Sutcliffe is a poor man's Chesapeake Ripper and, just because he had evidence coming out his pores, doesn't mean I have to like it."

It would have been impossible to stop, even if half of him wished it and half of it didn't. Hannibal gripped Will's right arm with a steely hand and jerked him against the car, stumbling. Will let out a huff of protest, the sound trying to become words that never found purchase because a solid body had pressed itself against him and hands held him steady as his mouth was captured. The unflattering sound of acceptant elation his throat let slip was mortifying. Almost as much as the twitch in his cock at the contact, or his left hand that had curled into Lecter's jacket on instinct; or the other which had slipped up to wrap its fingers around Hannibal's throat and squeeze.

Lecter stalled, backing away only enough for Will to see his hand around Lecter's long, pale throat. Everything else still touched, everything else still pressed tightly against the other. Hannibal's face was calm, almost impassive but for the glint of hunger in his eyes. Will felt Hannibal's Adam's apple bobbing against his palm and knew he was shaking, eyes wide as he stared at the very wrong, _so very wrong,_ sight before his eyes.

_Stared at it_.

"Oh god," he breathed out, feeling an answering hardness digging into his thigh; he pulled his hand back as if Hannibal's skin were scalding, breaking eye contact and huffing out, "I need to go."

"...As you wish," Hannibal said, standing back as Will grabbed for the door and hauled himself inside.

Lecter stood and watched him as he pulled out and drove away. Will kept his foot on the gas and didn't look back.

He knew, if he did, the temptation to slam on the brakes would win out over his dignity.


	3. Leur Font du Mal ou Leur Causent du Tort

**Chapter 3**

Leur Font du Mal ou Leur Causent du Tort (première partie)

Title translation:  
>"Leur Font du Mal ou Leur Causent du Tort" - 'Do Them Wrong'<p>

This is a psychological term relating to someone having a hard, suspicious and skeptical attitude towards other people and their motivations; vigilant in case other people 'do them wrong'

* * *

><p>"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of the infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far."<br>H.P. Lovecraft

* * *

><p>"I don't want to talk to her Jack. I don't want to meet up with her and whichever shrink you have waiting in the wings, and talk about whatever shared, imaginary bond they think we should have. Am I clear about this?"<p>

Will Graham stood, handle of his vacuum cleaner in one hand and phone in the other, waiting for the reply he needed.

"You're acting like this was my idea," Jack eventually said with a sigh.

"Frankly I don't care whose idea it was. I'm not interested because, for one, it's a futile exercise in dealing with trauma and, for two, it doesn't fucking work. You know how long it's taken me just to stop dreaming about it every night? You want to dredge all that back up because some shit from the Inspector General's office thinks I'm a liability?"

"Normally I'd agree with you," Jack said, sounding unimpressed, "but you were the one who put yourself in this mess. You're lucky your student doesn't want to take this further than just a complaint."

"Oh _come on. _I pulled _one_ of them up to the front for a demonstration," Will said, exasperated.

"You made her hyperventilate," Jack said strongly, "probably because you were making her imagine what it was like to rape and kill someone."

"She signed up for my damn classes," Will bit out, "she'll have worse on the job. If she can't handle the idea she should drop out. It's not like I put a knife in her hand and asked her to gut someone."

"I think you're missing the bigger picture here," Jack sounded cold.

"Yeah? Well then why don't they just fucking fire me?"

"I didn't call you to listen to your shit, Will. I called to make you do something about it before it comes to that. Dr. Lecter stopped consulting with us not long after you went missing, only agreed to help us with your search and nothing else. We've been left out to dry, Will. I want you back and it's not going to happen unless you get some _help_."

"I am not sitting down in room with Miriam Lass," Will knew he was on the verge of shouting, "and listening to her relive every moment of the worst two years of her life and feeling what she felt and _understanding_ it because I went through the same fucking thing! And if you or anyone else makes me you'll be seeing my damn resignation before you get the chance to throw me out!"

"Will..."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Look," Jack was angry now, "the last thing I need is you having a god damned nervous breakdown because you refuse to deal with what happened. You won't do what they want? Alright, then what will you do? Can I call Doctor Lecter and maybe..?"

Will hung up the phone and threw it across the room. Luckily it landed on the couch with a distinctly soft thump, disappearing under a cushion as if to hide. Without waiting to see if he was called back Will jammed on the vacuum cleaner and continued tidying the house. An hour and a half later, with the kitchen sparkling, the bathroom pristinely white and all the floors, curtains and furniture vacuumed, cupboards and wardrobes resorted, Will sat down on the couch and stared at the far wall, fingers interlaced. The sound of the washing machine from the utility room rushing through its spin cycle was the only reprieve from the words tumbling in his skull.

_Can I call Doctor Lecter and maybe..._maybe what? Ask him to make Will stop being crazy now he had no excuse not to be? To stop scaring people? To start being just like everyone else? That's what everyone wanted to say, right? Only none of them had the guts to speak up, tell the truth as they saw it, even though it wasn't the damned truth as far as he was concerned. Because he knew what they thought: Will was convenient when they needed him, but the rest of the time he was just a dirty little secret.

The worst part was perhaps how wrong Jack was. It wasn't what he remembered that troubled him. The fragments he had were short, disturbing chapters in a large empty book; and it was that emptiness which tipped the balance between coping and not-fucking-coping. It was the emptiness that made him wake feeling sick, made him snap at people, hate getting up in the morning, hate going to sleep at night, hate the idea of company, friends, _more_. Will knew the hidden memories lurking in his psyche were the evils driving him far crazier than those he could see within his own mind's eye.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember. He couldn't even begin to understand how to remember. It wasn't a fog or a haze, but a gap; like edited film skipping from one scene to the next. For him his mind told him a few days had passed, and for everyone else half a year had flicked by. Half a year in which everything had irrevocably changed. After three weeks back at work, falling into old routines and slipping back into what was left of his life, he had convinced himself he didn't need to remember. Things would slowly fall back into place. He just had to believe they would.

Then Heather MacPhillips has a panic attack in his lecture theatre and suddenly there are inquiries and instant suspicion and official paperwork, and the words _disturbed _and _post traumatic stress _and _psychiatric review _were being bandied about. Will was beginning to wonder if anything could truly fall back into place, the way it had been. Or if things had always been this bad and he'd just become complacent to it. Truthfully everything was out of joint, the wood warped, and now, sitting on his couch with his hand under the couch cushions looking for his phone, he knew he'd just have to accept that.

Understand just how far he'd fallen rather than deny it.

Will couldn't stop the start of surprise as the phone in his hand rang shrilly. He let out a long breath and shook off the rapid beat of his heart, looking down at the screen.

_-Hannibal _calling...-

Jack's a fast worker, Will thought with little humour. The phone was unceremoniously dumped back under the couch cushion where its muted ring was suffocated. He left it to die and went to hang up his laundry.

* * *

><p><em>The small room smelled of dusty air conditioning and hot lights. No windows, just grey walls, a large table and four chairs. Will had leant his crutches against the table and thankfully the third interviewer, someone named Gary Reegar from I.A., had pulled out Will's chair for him.<em>

_He wondered if the truth would be the story they liked best. Will knew what Oversights would want, what they were desperate for, and he wasn't sure he could give it to them. Despite the momentary team effort between himself and Reegar, they were now opposed. A row of three strict faces sitting across the table, Reegar, Purnell and Hatcher, watching him with their best guess at sympathetic authority._

"_Then you remember nothing after one p.m. on Tuesday the nineteenth of April?" Purnell asked, her head jutting forwards from her body; Will thought she looked like a starved hawk trying to grab for meat it couldn't reach._

"_No," Will said peremptorily, "I remember some things. It's all in my report."_

"_Yes, I see you have some vague memories of," Hatcher leafed through his report, "sounds and smells. Those I understand. Only there's something here I can't place."_

_Will watched him carefully. The emotionless way with which they referred to his trauma both calmed him, as it kept it distant, but also angered him, as it made his ordeal sound like just another statistic._

"_A book," Hatcher said, looking up under his grey hair with grey eyes to match, "and that's all you have. You say you remember a book. Would you mind expanding on that?"_

_It was instinct to say no to everything. If he said no to everything this interview would be over before it even began. Only he knew that was a falsity. They would be there until Oversights and Internal Affairs were satisfied and the Inspector General knew he could put the call out to the Media Liaison to flood the local newspapers with the headline 'Chesapeake Ripper confirmed dead'._

"_I don't really remember much other than the book," Will shrugged, "I just remember opening it, I can...see it in my hands. Page torn in half on the right. Drop of blood on the page. Then that's it. That's all there is."_

"_Do remember which book?"_

"_Does it sound like I remember which book it was?" Will asked._

_Silence, thinned lips and shared glances between his judges were his only reply. Will sat back in his chair, rubbed at his chin and tried to relax. Being antagonistic would only make this last longer._

"_So you don't remember what led you to Donald Sutcliffe's house?" Purnell asked._

"_What makes you think I went to his house?"_

"_Well, you found a book which," she reached for a brown folder and opened it to reveal a stack of photographs; leafing through she found the one she wanted and held it up, "matches the description of this one perfectly. Found in Sutcliffe's house in his bookcase."_

"_What's the name?"_

"_Excuse me?" she asked._

"_I asked the name of the book."_

"_It's _The Iliad,"_ she said, "now..."_

"_Bressinden," Will said to himself, trying desperately to remember, "the book taken from the George Peabody Library."_

"_Yes," Hatcher said, interrupting when Purnell looked like she might start snapping; she sat back from the table and crossed her arms, watching Will closely, "it was confirmed as the source of the message left on David Bressinden's body. The paper is a match and the blood spot is Bressinden's."_

_Will bit at his right thumbnail and stared at the table, his mind rushing off without them. Why keep it? he thought, Why would the Ripper keep a trophy? The man didn't do the usual, he didn't take trinkets, he didn't keep the bodies to revisit and relive the kill. He didn't do the average serial killer shtick because he wasn't in any way average. So why keep the book?_

"_A victim which you yourself told Jack Crawford was an aberrant kill," Reegar finally spoke up, breaking Will's concentration, "that there was an emotional attachment to the victim."_

"_That's not what I said."_

"_No?" Purnell jumped in._

"_No," Will reiterated firmly, "I said that there was something different about his choice in Bressinden and the manner in which he disposed of him, not that he was aberrant in terms of behaviour."_

"_That's the same thing..." Hatcher started, frowning._

"_The Chesapeake Ripper doesn't have aberrances," Will said strictly._

"_Didn't," Hatcher corrected him, "he didn't have aberrances."_

_A long breath did little to calm his surging blood and frazzled nerves. Will felt like a broken lighthouse on the shore with three large cargo ships before him heading for the rocks. Worst part? He wouldn't feel sorry for them when they ran aground and the crew fell fowl of the chill rip tide._

_Paper was shuffled and the room was filled with the sound of it, as well as clearing of throats and shifting in chairs._

"_You also said that you remembered the smell of what you thought might be his cologne," Reegar seemed to be speaking up more now that Purnell was noticeably irate._

"_That's right," Will nodded._

_Without another word a bottle was produced, sitting elegant within its see through evidence bag, and placed upon the table. Reegar donned a set of gloves and broke the seal, making Will feel very uncomfortable. _Is that_..? he thought, _it must be. _Reegar stood and walked around the table towards him, open bottle in hand. Will knew what he wanted but, even when it was offered, it took him long enough for Reegar to look uncomfortable before Will worked up the courage to lean forwards and inhale._

_Wood smoke, spicy wood smoke, followed by Instant-Overbearing-Fear. Will was unable to stop the reaction, or the widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips and the stuttering sound of breath that escaped. He sat back into his chair and put his hands firmly on the arms, licking his lips. Hatcher had the good grace to look sympathetic. Purnell couldn't contain her look of vindication._

"_Is this the same?" Reegar asked as he reclosed the bottle and set about sealing the bag and re-dating it._

"_...Yes," Will said._

"_Sutcliffe wore it," Purnell said, "we've confirmed it with others..."_

"_Look, I'm not stupid," Will cut in sharply, looking down at the desk, "you don't give a shit about what I wrote in my report except the addendum. Right?" he managed to glance up, "I don't agree that Sutcliffe was the Ripper and that's a spanner in the works. I _get it_."_

"_No, I don't think you do get it," Purnell said patronisingly, leaning forwards and clasping her hands, "because right now what _you're_ doing is keeping a city under the yolk of fear of a dead man."_

"_Donald Sutcliffe doesn't fit," he said, over annunciating._

"_A profile isn't the be all and end all," Hatcher said, shaking his head._

"_Of which I am well aware. But this is different."_

"_So you're trying to say you had him all summed up but couldn't find him?"_

"_Yes," Will said bluntly, "that's exactly what I'm saying. And Sutcliffe _didn't fit."

"_You met the man once," Purnell said, arrogantly disbelieving._

"_Ha...Dr Lecter spoke about him on occasion," Will said, lifting his hand before carelessly dropping it down to his thigh._

"_And that's enough for you to build a working profile?" Purnell asked skeptically, shaking her head._

_Will didn't lean forwards or move. He merely linked his gaze with Purnell's unconvinced stare and held it. She didn't look openly uncomfortable at the sudden focus she was under, but he could tell she was. A subtle fidget of her hand into her hair, Will noticed, and her blinks increased two fold while she held his stare._

"_I can build a working profile, Agent Purnell," he said slowly, "from the way someone lays a dinner table. Don't question my abilities."_

"_Miriam Lass has confirmed Sutcliffe as her captor," Hatcher butted in before things got ugly._

"_And he had her for over two years," Will argued back, "god knows what he could have done to her in that time. Could probably have had her believing she was abducted by moon people and she'd swear it was one hundred percent true."_

"_That's a little far fet..." Reegar began as Purnell let out a discourteous huffing laugh and shook her head._

"_Why did he let her see his face?"_

_That shut them up. They stared at him and Will managed to stare back._

"_It's a legitimate question," he said, "he let her see his face. I've read her report, it states quite clearly that she recognised him. That's why she didn't hesitate to kill him once she managed to get out of the boot. Then why didn't I ever see his face? If I wasn't blindfolded I was unable to open my eyes. Why would he care? I never saw him and I barely heard him. When he spoke he spoke in whispers. She said he spoke in a normal voice which she could understand. Why?"_

"_Well he was clearly obsessed with you," Purnell said._

_Another folder opened, another splay of plastic sealed papers spread out across the tabletop. Will recognised the red banner of _Tattlecrime _at the heads of some, newspaper headlines above others. The only link between them was the sight of his own face blazoned somewhere on each one, or his name in stark black typeface, staring back at him. Will bit at the inside of his cheek and took a deep breath. It doesn't fit, he thought, it doesn't fit him._

"_He had screeds of these, some from before you even entered your post at the Academy. Look, here," she picked one up; an old newspaper clipping from his days in the NOPD. A small snippet: Local Cop Saves Child from Crazed Father, "and the ink used to print these out? Matches the ink and paper used to send the threats to Bressinden."_

"_You think he'd be that careless?" Will scoffed, "To use his own printer? Come on!"_

"_The amount of evidence against him is insurmountable," Hatcher said stoutly, his grey eyes sharp, "the sooner you open your eyes and see that, the sooner we can all move on from this. His basement was a body chop-shop Graham, a storage container registered in his name had your car inside and a host of trophies taken from the victims, he _knew_ you had encephalitis and he _knew _how to treat it because he was the only god damned neurological specialist who knew you even had it. For god's sakes the cabin where Agent Crawford recovered you was his holiday home!"_

"_Then what did he do with organs?" Will said, refusing to acknowledge Hatcher, "You say he took trophies? The Ripper doesn't take trophies, he takes body parts. And what does he do with them? We don't know, we've never known, but I sure as hell am sure he doesn't do it for fun. You didn't find a refrigeration unit in the basement, nothing to keep things fresh. Hell he didn't even have a freezer big enough to freeze a body, but we know he froze them. How can you just hand wave away all these blatant holes in your theory?"_

"_This is pointless," Reegar sat back, chucking his pen onto the table and putting his chin in his hand while Hatcher and Purnell, while obviously as fed up as their colleague, simply continued to stare at Will resolutely._

"_All I'm saying is," Will said stoutly, "that you have no evidence placing Sutcliffe at any of the previous murder scenes attributed to the Chesapeake Ripper. The book could have been planted, the basement planted, the tow truck planted, the 'trophies', the blood, Miriam Lass, me, everything could have been set up. All that you have is essentially circumstantial and, quite frankly, raises more questions than it answers."_

_To put it lightly, that hadn't gone down well._

* * *

><p>The large, yellow, flashing detour sign sent him downtown. Will took it with a wide turn of his steering wheel and the Volvo's large tyres bounced as he went up and over a speed bump. He quickly left the bright lights of the highway behind him, sweeping into the run down and the desolate.<p>

He felt his phone vibrate a ring in his jacket pocket, ignoring it as he focused on the road. He already knew who it would be. The last thing he needed was to see the man's name and ruin his budding appetite.

Inner city, east-side, Baltimore; brown lots, ramshackle shops and the pervasive orange glow of the street lamp. Will let it wash past him like sewage. Sometimes the city showed its colours, he thought. Not the glitzy class of the Lyric Opera House, or the quaint beauty and the classic architecture of the old town. This was where people lived and breathed, squatted and drank, struggled and died.

The boarded up shop fronts sat like mummified corpses. Will stopped at a red light and stared at a group of five kids on the other side of the crossing, playing basketball in a dusty lot through a hoop that looked more like a steel rim nailed to the side of a board. Yet, without the artifice of the city trying desperately to pretend there was no such thing as urban disorder, it was difficult not to get lost in their enthusiasm.

There were two players on the team wearing shirts. The skins had three. Refereeing was by acclimation, it seemed. A small skin, shoved down in the rebounding, stalked home mad. Of those that remained some jeered, some tried to encourage him back. Still, now the numbers were even the game continued. Somehow the shouting and the thump of the ball lifted his spirits. The only reason Will stopped watching was the sudden, blaring horn behind him. He looked up; the light was green. He drove on, leaving the gleeful children behind him.

Half way to finding his route back to the highway Will gave up and decided to pull in at a small, corner grocery store which he happened to be passing. Sat opposite a junk yard it didn't look particularly appetising but Will wasn't fussy. Food was food and, right then, his legs were beginning to ache and he just wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Today had been a slow burn and he wasn't willing to let it come to a head with him stranded because his calf muscles seized up.

The air was chill and pulled his jacket closed, zipping up the front, before slamming the car door shut. The sound stirred up an excess of barks from across the street. Will looked up to find a Rottweiler tied to the tall metal fence of the junk yard, barking rapidly. The twisted metal of cars and engines and unidentifiable scrap towered in mutated piles, making the dog seem small in their midst. Will watched for a minute, waiting. Eventually the dog tired of the continuous bark and let out a long whine before trying to turn around and lie down. The short leash halted its progress and the dog stumbled before simply sitting down on the ground. Will felt his hands curl to fists in around his crutches as he forced himself into the store. He shopped curtly. In the dog food isle he knew he was buying too many cans. Were his hands trying to convince him before his mind did? He didn't make conversation with the teller even though they tried to engage him.

It was an hour before he was done. When he returned to the car with his shopping cart, leaning heavily on it, the sun was setting behind the low-building skyline. The dog was still there, sitting by the fence. Will glanced over every time he lifted a bag and put it into the boot. After the third bag he stopped. Enough at home already that feeding them all was difficult on his budget, as were vets bills, and new dogs always brought a host of vets bills, and what if the others didn't like..? Will stopped thinking when he looked back over at the lone dog in the gloom, panting. He looked around the mainly deserted area and gave in.

The tool case he kept in his boot was overstocked, he knew he always carried too much, but today he was reaping the benefits. He pulled out the bolt cutters from the box, a packet of casserole steak from one of the shopping bags, and hobbled across the street. Once he was within fifteen feet the dog was on its feet again, _bark, bark, bark_, but Will ignored it.

It was his principal to only take the free runners, the ones with no leads and no owners to care for them but this...this made his blood run cold and hot all at once, seeing a dog left like this. As far as he was concerned, he thought as he tore open the thin, gummy plastic covering the meat and threw a few chunks through the fence, at that moment he would relish a confrontation with the owner; it would give him something interesting to do with the bolt cutters.

"There you go buddy," he said softly, smiling as the dog ceased its barking and leapt on the meat, slurping it from the dirty ground; he chucked a few more, "you hungry, huh?"

The dog didn't answer with a growl or a bark, but instead bright eyes which stared at him rapt. Will's smile broadened.

"Yeah," he said dryly, "I thought you might be."

A few more chunks were thrown through as Will crept closer and eventually, after he rested his crutches against the metal, managed to shimmy his way down the fence and sit on the cold sidewalk. He took his time so as not to overload the starving dog's stomach. It was another few chunks before Will risked his luck and his fingers. He held out a piece of meat on his palm and curved his hand, just enough to put it flat against the fence. The dog took it with a rough tongue and Will laughed as it licked his fingers clean of the blood. He put his fingers through the fence and continued until all the meat was gone.

Will looked the dog over, thinking him a bit of a runt for a male, seeing a few marks on the back legs, scars, and something that looked open and bloody near the tail. As well as that the dog was actually female. Unusual choice, he thought, for a guard dog. Also, as far as Will was concerned, she was pretty heavy round the belly for a starving junkyard dog. He forced himself to remain calm for her sake.

By the time he was done the sun had sunk to a dull glow and the stars were coming out. He realised he was cold from sitting on the freezing sidewalk by the fence and made to get up. The whine that the dog let out was enough to make Will feel the need to break the fingers of whoever had put her there, or worse.

"Don't worry," he said quietly, "it's ok. You want to come home with me?"

He lifted the bolt cutters and the first snip was put through the wires where the dog's leash was tied. Still, even as Will worked as quickly as he could to snip enough to able to pull open a section of the fence, the dog did not run or even move at all until he was finished. Will looked around him quickly before reaching down and hauling open the hole he'd made. The dog pushed through with a slight waddle. Will undid the leash, a slipknot lead, and threw it back over the fence. He hurried as best he could to his car, put his groceries, his toolbox and his recycling in the backseat, and pulled out his emergency blanket.

"Think you can get up ok?" Will asked as he rolled out the blanket on the floor of the, now empty, boot, "We should really get out of here."

The dog was panting heavily and Will patted the soft blanket. With a great heft the front paws scrabbled up but the back two seemed like a lost cause. The sound of people leaving the grocery store and the approach of more cars made Will antsy. He reached down, one hand still tight around his crutch, grabbed the dog around the top of her back legs, lifted with difficulty and pushed. He was given a whining bark and a snap with teeth for his troubles. Will didn't resent it. He knew he'd probably worried the wound near her tail. He made sure she was properly in before shutting the boot and getting back in the driver's seat, crutches fitted in at an odd angle across the mess of groceries and tools in the back seat. It was as he drove back home with the faint smell of dog musk on his hands and the sound of panting breath from his boot, that he realised she hadn't had a collar on. This would be the first stray he would be able to name for himself.

* * *

><p>Dark woods. They shouldn't be out here. Hard to see the predators coming. Hard to see the prey disappearing. Hard to see the hunted predator sitting in the thicket. Will looked about him, catching a pale face crouched by his side.<p>

"Do you enjoy the hunt?" Abigail asked with sincerity.

"It's necessary," he replied bluntly.

"But the blood flows in your veins," she said, frowning, "just like in theirs. You should have more respect."

They broke cover slowly, creeping across the mulch floor of pine needles and broken twigs. The air was warm, balmy, and there was a smell high on the air. A scent. Will followed it, his hands tight around his rifle. He headed towards the dark patches, always away from the light. No use looking where there was a chance at redemption.

"How did it feel to kill?"

"It was ugly Abigail, the ugliest of things."

They continued on towards the bait. He hoped the trap had been sprung. It was as he stepped from the safety of the thicket and out into the clearing that he knew it had. The tree stood before him, thick and gnarled, twisting and ancient. The rope twisted around its boughs seemed to imitate the ropey bark on the thick beams, holding up the familiar figure there. Hair parted perfectly, face calm and mildly curious, slim maroon eyes regarding him fondly.

Hannibal stared at him, trussed and caught like a tangled fly in a spider's web. The ropes were abrasive, red raw flesh visible against throat and wrists. A trickle of blood down into the dip of his collarbone. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch the red liquid, bring it back to his lips for a taste. Will wondered what Hannibal saw as Will smiled in return.

Then a spike of chill air. Will felt his smile melt. A broken twig from behind him. He turned slowly, unwilling to spook whatever prey had wandered near his instinct. The scent was strong. He found Abigail alone, staring at him with painful anger.

"We thought you'd understand," she said, "why can't you just understand?"

"Sweetheart..." he began softly.

Only a second's warning. He felt himself turn his head to the right, faced with a line of dark trees and stillness. Then an impassive face and an ebony body leapt from behind him, claws raised, and there was enough time left to imagine them piercing his flesh as he tried to raise his gun before he sprang awake panting and clutching at his aching chest.

Winston was the first to jump up. Will stared at the dog's inquisitive eyes, trying to slow his breathing. Eventually he reached out with a trembling hand and patted the bed beside him. Winston instantly padded forwards and lay down on Will's right, soft fur flush against his arm. It didn't take long for another set of paws to leap up from the left. Sascha took position across the bottom of the bed, stretching out. Then Lady fumbled up inelegantly, followed by Lenny who lay down to his left with a thump. Will listened to the sound of scrabbling for a few seconds, a smile fritzing on and off, before he sat up and leaned over Lenny, reaching down to scoop Pugsley up from the floor. He was deposited beside Lady on the unused pillow.

For a second's reprieve Will wondered where the hell his new recruit, currently curled up in the utility room, was going to fit when she was ready to join them. Dog tetris was always a nightmare.

He slipped back to sleep with the sound of sleepy snuffling all around. Will hoped, as he drifted, that his pack could accompany him down through the veil. The hunt was always so much safer with them at his back.

* * *

><p>Staring at the email, Will realised as he sat on the couch the next day eating his breakfast of toast and honey, wasn't going to make it go away.<p>

_Dear Will,_

_As I understand it you are not busy at the moment. I have a suggestion you may find interesting. Please make an appointment with my office._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Doctor Frederick Chilton_  
>Director<br>Baltimore Asylum for the Criminally Insane

He had to remind himself that it had been a lot longer for Chilton than it had for Will since their last altercation. The stink of hospital filled his nose at the memory, Chilton sweating and guilty and clutching at his abdomen. Still, even without their shared animosity, Will was amazed the man had the nerve to contact him at all. Of course it still bore all the hallmarks of Chilton's usual supercilious egocentricism; using Will's first name to appear cosily intimate, the not-so-subtle jab at the fact Will wasn't teaching at the moment while the complaint against him was dealt with, and the statement of his full title at the end as if Will wasn't painfully aware of who he was.

Still, he couldn't say he wasn't mildly interested. Mildly being the operative word. Just because Chilton was a terrible psychiatrist and a failed surgeon didn't mean he couldn't be useful on occasion. If he had something Will could use then it could always be utilised without Chilton once the man divulged its contents. Will tapped his fingers against the wood of the coffee table before bashing out a reply.

_Put me down for tomorrow at ten a.m. I have to take my dog to the vets._

_Will_

So far he wasn't begrudging his days off. He loaded his new charge, washed down with a wet cloth the night before, into the car and drove carefully. He hadn't had much time to think about his failing situation what with introducing her carefully to the others. First he had let them scent the blanket she had lain upon on the drive home. Then he'd tried to put her into the dog cage he kept for initiates but she wasn't having any of it. So in the end he'd let her sleep in the utility room where it was warmest and where the fleas he was sure she had wouldn't irritate himself or the others.

On the way his phone rang. When he pulled into the parking lot by the veterinary clinic and checked it, he felt a well of difficult feelings surge up.

_Missed Call: _  
>12:04<br>Hannibal

Was this to become a permanent fixture in his life? Not that he wasn't entirely capable of stonewalling the undesired; Will had lots of experience in that area. What made this all the more difficult was the fact that Hannibal wasn't exactly an 'undesired'. He was a silken tiger lying prostrate in the long grass while Will kept him steady in his crosshair, unable to pull the trigger, yet also unable to look away.

In the end he'd tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Another 'found dog' report to file Will?"

Catherine Jayce, the receptionist and vet's assistant, was always smiling. It was the one thing Will didn't like about her. He brought the dog in behind him slowly, hand tight on her new leash in case she didn't react well to the other clients. It seemed there were only a few in; an old woman with a large Persian cat in a carrier, a middle aged man with a sad looking golden lab, and a mother and son with an exotic cockatiel who sat upon the boy's shoulder opening and closing his impressive, white plumage.

"Yeah," Will said absently as he led the dog to the desk.

"Ok," she said, already having pulled out the paperwork; some of her brown hair fell from her tight ponytail and into her face. She pushed it away and clicked her pen, "well, I can already see she's a Rotty. Hello there," she said to the dog as she peered over the counter, "Any idea how old?"

"Best guess, four or five?"

"Any ID?"

"None on her."

"Ok, then I'll need a name for the form."

"Frank."

"...Funny name for a girl," Catherine said, her eyebrow raising and her smile turning to more of a smirk as she penned it in.

"You've obviously never read _The Wasp Factory_," Will said.

"The what?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Alright, give me a moment and I'll get her a scan."

Frank stood still as a statue while Catherine ran the microchip scanner over the neck, back and hind legs. Will let out a soft sigh of relief when nothing turned up. The last thing he needed was the scumbag to have had her chipped. As far as he was concerned, she was never going back there.

"I'm guessing this is another one for the collection?"

Will looked round to see Dr Theo in the doorway leading to the examination rooms. He was a tall man, older than Will by a good twenty years, with a distinguished grey streak in his black hair and was Will's vet of choice. Had been for five years. Yet, even as Will answered him, Dr. Theo wasn't the person he was looking at.

"Yeah," he said to the vet before saying, "Hey," to Alana who stood holding a mottled brown and white dog on a leash, stopped by the doorway which Dr. Theo held open.

"Hi," she said cautiously while her dog strained forwards to sniff at Frank who, in return, shifted to move behind Will's legs.

"I wouldn't let them too close," Will said, "she might have fleas."

"Oh," Alana said a little distantly, nodding, pulling her dog back beside her.

"Bonnie?" he heard Dr. Theo announce loudly.

The man with the golden lab stood up and was forced to practically drag his charge through the waiting door. When Will looked away from the sight of the dog's tail disappearing into the corridor he found Alana at the desk with Catherine settling the bill. Realising he'd have a little time before Theo was ready again Will took Frank outside, careful to keep his crutches free of tangling in her leash. She seemed unhappy in the small space of the waiting room and Will didn't want to give the fleas a chance to spread to the other pets. They stood in the parking lot, Will slipping Frank bone shaped gravy treats out of his full pocket. She crunched them happily, always looking up at him for more with a panting tongue.

It was a couple of minutes before the door opened again. Will didn't need to look up to know who it was. He pulled out two treats and glanced up under his glasses.

"Is it ok to..?" he asked open-endedly, lifting the treat.

"Sure," Alana nodded.

Will chucked the treat through the air and Alana's dog jumped up on her front paws to catch it; he gave the other to Frank so she didn't feel left out.

"Didn't know you came here," he asked, trying for pleasant small talk.

"I moved, month and a half ago. This is my local now."

"Right," Will nodded.

The sound of wind stirring the dirt, rustling the leaves of the trees and sending them floating to the ground. The silence between them seemed palpable.

"Her name's Applesauce," Alana finally spoke up, ruffling her dog's ears.

"Interesting choice," Will's smile was staid.

"She likes applesauce," Alana shrugged, "...what's her name?"

"Frank," Will said.

"Oh," Alana said, raising a brow, "and you're badmouthing _my_ choice of name."

"It's a long story," Will shrugged, looking away to his left.

_The last time he had seen her she'd been pale and lifeless on the hospital bed, wires slinking against her skin and a steady beep measuring out her life. Then he awoke and she was there, walking through the door of his hospital room, alive, smiling, talking...only he wasn't able to tell her how happy he was that she was alright, that she'd come through on top, that she was going to continue to be in his life, because everything had been doused by Hannibal's hand sliding down her back and Will's world falling apart._

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the silence, when he heard the phone in his car bleat out its call and interrupt their stilted conversation. He held Frank close on her leash even as she stared towards the sound, ears raised. Alana watched him, a small frown between her eyes. They stood, unmoving, until the phone stopped abruptly mid-ring. She shook her head and looked down at her feet. They both knew who it had been.

"You know, Hannibal's been really worried about you. We both have. All he wants is to know you're ok."

There was no reply he could speak aloud, because the only one appropriate to give was also the most inappropriate.

_It's not all he wants_

Instead of speaking the inflammatory words he stood, watching the door to the vets, hands tight around the leash in his hands. He knew that she didn't know, and it only made it worse; sordid, somehow. He was sure that Hannibal wouldn't have spoken a word to her of he and Will's affair. Hannibal had always been overly possessive of him, enough that he only made it plain how he felt when he assumed there was a threat to his dominance. And it stung more than it should have. Did you even want everyone to know about the two of you? he asked himself harshly. He surprised himself with the answer.

Yes and no. He preferred privacy, liked what was his to be his and not have to share it with the world, but...he didn't think he would have minded letting people know that he belonged to Hannibal, even with the consequences. The word was a heavy reminder - _belonged_ - and his mind was already flashing off without him: _Alana tipping her head to the side as Hannibal trailed his mouth across her throat; his hands slipping up beneath her blouse; gasps swallowed by full lips._

'_It's not the fact that you're with her that pisses me off'_

It had been a half truth: true that he resented Hannibal's seemingly fickle nature, but he couldn't deny the jealousy. The aching resentment whenever his imagination flared and he saw them together in his mind's eye. Reliving his own intimate moments with Hannibal but seeing himself replaced by another. Mornings were the worst. Mornings where he woke, a half-awake hand sliding out over the bed expecting to hit warm flesh, his drowsy stare expecting to see half lidded eyes above a slow smile on the soft pillows.

To say that he hated it seemed redundant and oversimplified, but he did. He _hated it_.

And he wished his best friends weren't all embroiled in it. Even as Catherine poked her head around the door and told Will that Frank was ready to be seen, he couldn't help but smile derisively. 'Best friend'.

_You're supposed to be my anchor, Will had said harshly._

_I am, Hannibal replied._

In the end he kept his mouth shut because he was worried, if he opened it, something irrevocable would slip out. For better or for worse. He kept his eyes on the door and heard Alana's shoes crunching in the dirt and stones as she shuffled on them.

"Well," she sounded hurt, unimpressed and sympathetic all at once, "when you feel the need to start talking about what happened to you, instead of hiding behind small talk and doing your best impression of a mute, you know where I am."

Will looked down, a slow sigh on his lips as Alana walked off, Applesauce trotting beside her. He looked at Frank who stared up at him. Will felt like an asshole when she simply let out a groaning whine and looked away. _Fuck_, he thought viscerally as he heard Alana open the boot for her dog to jump inside. He watched her drive away without another glance in his direction.

Will picked up Frank's leash and led the dog inside. He busied himself with his appointment, only half listening to the list of ailments she would need treated, _malnutrition needed special food for bulking up, wound at the tail that needed cleaning and stitches, and..._

"...she's pregnant."

"What?" that had pulled Will out of his daze; he looked to Dr. Theo with a lost stare.

"I said she's pregnant, Will," Theo looked delighted, "heavily. I'm surprised you didn't notice."

"I thought it might be peritonitis," Will shrugged helplessly, "Lenny had peritonitis when I picked him up. Looked like he'd eaten a balloon."

"No, it's definitely not that. She's actually pretty healthy other than needing a damn good feeding and a patch up," Theo said, as he carefully felt along her belly with his gloved fingers, "I'd say maybe...a couple of weeks and she'll be ready. I can take her for an ultrasound but it'll add to the bill. Honestly I don't think you need it. I've seen enough pregnant bitches to give you a rough estimate of say, oh, a litter of seven or eight? So if you're giving her flea treatment use Frontline, the spray is good. Not Advantage, it's pretty heavy on the chemicals."

"Alright," Will nodded, "ok. Thanks."

"Don't look so down, Will," Theo said with a broad smile, showing his slightly crooked teeth as he stood up from his crouch, "your pack just got a little cosier, that's all."

"Yeah," Will sighed, rubbing his face with his left hand while he stroked Frank's head with his right, "I guess you're right."

* * *

><p>So far Freddie had been surprisingly cagey on the topic of Will Graham, especially considering he was hot news. Will wondered if Jack had anything to do with the lull. He could imagine an embargo would have been backed by the higher ups too. Will's incarceration by the Chesapeake Ripper was an embarrassing blight on their record, just as Miriam Lass's disappearance had been years before.<p>

Only now it seemed the temptation was too high and Freddie had gone ahead regardless. The only reason he'd known it was coming at all had been the slew of emails she had sent him begging and cajoling for an exclusive interview. He hadn't even refused, instead just ignoring the correspondence altogether. Now, as he read the petty words, he wished he'd given in.

_Serial Killer Specialist Becomes Victim of his own Profession_

_No doubt my faithful readers are up to date with their news bulletins and are aware of the recovery of the BAU's most wanted: Will Graham – the psycho psychic. Abducted on the evening of April 13__th__, Graham was the second to join the list of missing victims, but not confirmed dead, of the Chesapeake Ripper along with Miriam Lass, a trainee under Jack Crawford (BAU Chief). This faux pas on Crawford's part speaks volumes as to his continued mystification by the Ripper until the surprise demise of Maryland's number one most wanted on October 1__st__._

_The FBI press releases state that Graham has amnesia, unable to remember why or how he was able to ferret out the Ripper's identity, but this humble reporter wants to delve deeper, to bring you the truth. Should we be relieved that Graham was found, or should we be wary of the return of the man capable of doing what the FBI has been unable to for two and a half years?_

_Specialists involved in Graham's care after his recovery told this reporter, "His physical state is remarkably healthy. If I didn't know any better I would have thought he'd been bed bound for only a few weeks, not months". A further doctor commented that he was amazed at the speed with which Graham had recovered his cognitive abilities and control over his body, "normally it takes weeks just to understand the transition back into normal life. Will has a drive I've never seen before in any other patient who's been under that long"._

(Underneath was a photograph, obviously taken discreetly, of Will lying prostrate and unconscious in his hospital bed.)

_Words that speak of the medical abilities of the Ripper? Or an un-investigated hunch that speaks of Will Graham's 'amnesia' being a convenient story? Was Graham truly kept in a medically induced coma for just over five months or did he and the Ripper have an arrangement that no one but he and the now deceased Donald Sutcliffe know of? Keep your eyes on the instalments, fellow Tattlers, as this mystery unfolds._

Will drew in a long breath, closed his eyes and let it out as a silent sigh. How the hell did she get people to talk to her? Will knew he hadn't exactly endeared himself to the staff at the hospital but he was sure they were professional enough not to gossip about patients. Probably told them she was a concerned relative or something, he thought wryly. It always seemed such a waste to him when he thought about it for any length of time; Freddie was sharp, he hated to admit it. If she put her mind to tracking down killers instead of corresponding with them to make a quick buck, then the world might be a safer place.

On the way to Chilton's office he stopped by the pet store and spent half an hour deciding what he needed to buy and what he was able to mock up at home. His car was laden by the time he drew up before the stately front of the Asylum.

Negotiating the stairs and the large, ornate doorway ended up being the most unpleasant moments of his visit. Not that he found the rest of his time there delightful, just that he was already resigned to Chilton having something up his sleeve before he even arrived. So when the man welcomed him into his office and offered him a seat, he wasn't surprised by what came out of the man's mouth.

"I can help you, Will."

"Who says I need help?"

"A little bird at the FBI tells me you're being investigated for inappropriate behaviour in the classroom."

"Please don't make me sound like a sex offender," Will raised a sardonic brow.

"Well, there's certainly room for improvement in your curriculum. An inability to readjust to the social order? Projecting traumas onto others? You're exhibiting signs of an inability to cope with the return to normal life."

"And apparently you should know. Which are you going to pick, Fred?" Will asked with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "PTSD? Stockholm syndrome?"

"If you'll let me help we won't need to pick a dysfunction so very arbitrarily."

"I'm not here to be analysed by you."

"Perhaps you should be," Chilton said, leaning back in his chair, one hand on his desk, the other playing with a pen, "we're woefully short of material on your sort of thing. You're well talked about in my area."

"Oh? What do they say about me?"

"Too many mirror neurons. Supposed to help us socialise and then go away, but you've held onto yours. Makes interacting with people difficult."

"It's a mild form of echopraxia," Will said, tipping his head and keeping behind his glasses.

"Yes, I know," Chilton looked conceited, "I can only imagine what something like that does to someone who imagines killing people for a living. Mix that with your being an eideteker and your personality must become a rogue's gallery of misfits. Is it difficult to shake off the shadows?" Will bit at the inside of his lip and considered telling Chilton he could give him a demonstration if he liked; he held back, refusing to give in to the bait, "I have to ask, during intense conversations, do you take on the other person's speech patterns?"

Will didn't answer, this time not because he was exercising restraint, but instead because the words were prickly. They stung him. He sat, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. A flash of memory, _standing in Chilton's office, absorbed in a man absent from the proceedings. Hannibal's lilt said in his tone, Hannibal's gestures shown through his hands. _Odd, he thought, how some of the happiest spaces in his mind were now transfigured to the basest.

"Did you have a good reason for asking me here?" he asked, rubbing at his face.

"Something I've developed which I think you might be interested in," Chilton said, looking happy to have disquieted Will, "I call it IA-RMT."

"Does it stand for I'm a really massive twat?"

"Incipient Access Recovered-memory therapy," Chilton said each word slowly and tightly through clenched teeth, "and I'd rather you were more appreciative. I have no obligation to offer this to you, and between the two of us I am not the one on suspension."

"On review," Will clarified, "and what in the hell makes you think I want, for one, my memories back, or two, you in my head unsupervised. I've heard of RMT therapies, they're controversial for a reason. Didn't you learn your lesson with Gideon?"

"I should hope so," Chilton said, seething beneath his calm exterior, "he's back in my care after all."

"Well you must have a lot to talk about," Will said facetiously, sitting up and reaching for his crutches.

"Not as much as we would have to talk about if you'd just let me help you..."

"Yeah, you can help me alright. Get the door."

To say he left on a sour note would have been rather an understatement. Will hadn't been blind to the undercurrent of desperation in Chilton's tone. He wondered why the man was so fractious then, as he approached the exit, reminded himself that he didn't care.

The door was just as obstinate on the way out as it had been on the way in. Will tried to shuffle his crutches further back under his armpits and lean forwards on the balls of his feet, hand grasping for the long, vertical handle.

"Here, lemme get that for you."

Will looked over his right shoulder to find a vaguely familiar man reaching towards the door, so close that Will was amazed he hadn't heard him approach. He jerked back from the proximity, his left crutch slipping. Will felt his ankle give way as he tried to lock his leg to stop himself from falling. His breath stopped as he felt himself slip, then stuck in his throat as a strong, wiry arm wound around his back and held him steady. His crutches clattered to the ground, echoing, and Will was forced to grab a handful of white material with his left hand, his right tight around the door handle. A lithe chest pressed against his side, sinewy muscles apparent through the thin material of his orderly uniform.

"Whoa there," the voice was familiar now too, tainted with a smile; Will kept his eyes averted from the face, so close he thought he could feel warm breath against his cheek, "didn't mean to startle you. Just hold on," Will leaned forwards and grabbed the other door handle, "I'll get these."

The first crutch slipped up under his right arm and Will leaned heavily on it, facing the door, eyes trained on the fancy filigree around the door handles, until the left one appeared. He let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and stepped cagily back. He watched as the door was opened. It was a quick glance, nothing but a flick of eyes up then down, but enough for Will to remember him. _Short black hair: thin lips and a high forehead: cold eyes_. The orderly who'd spoken to Jack beside the ambulance as Lawrence Wells was loaded inside and Will sat shaking on the steps to the asylum. Will felt the need to back off to higher ground.

In the end he managed to grind out a "Thank you," before the man walked around and held open the door for him.

"No problem Mr. Graham," the man said as he left, careful on the stairs, "you drive safe now."

He had to be careful not to trip, hurrying as he was down the stairs. Part of him had wanted to ask how the hell the man knew his name, while the other was more interested in why his instincts were flaring like claxons, his heart hammering in his chest even as his face remained set, irate. _Don't touch me, don't fucking touch me!_ Will almost bit through his lip at the memory: unable to move, a hand against his collarbone, a kiss against his cheek. The steady beeping of a machine in time with his heart.

When the phone rang he answered it just to stop the sound, uncaring of who was on the other end.

"What?" he bit out.

"Well, at least I am certain I haven't gone to voicemail."

I should have checked, Will thought as he closed his eyes, leaning against the car. Trying to slow his heartbeat seemed a pointless exercise now. The wind rustled the tall trees lining the car park, sending a blizzard of yellow and red leaves down across his car, one catching in his hair. Will shook his head roughly, finally managing to speak.

"What do you want Hannibal?" he couldn't stop the tightness in his voice as he dug around for his car keys.

"I merely wish to talk..."

"I'm hanging up."

"As you wish."

The phone seemed to stare at him as he looked down at it, with the same calm resoluteness Hannibal displayed at all times. His finger hovered over the button for all of five seconds before he let out a sound of disgust and lifted the phone back to his ear.

"I do believe you have not hung up, Will."

"No shit," Will said sourly, "you'll just call me back. I know you. Tell me what you want so we can get this over with."

"Unfortunate phrasing on your part," Hannibal sounded calm and controlled; Will imagined slamming his perfectly groomed head in a door and felt a little better, "being 'over with' would preclude my phoning you at all."

"Get to the point," Will bit out, hating that his hand shook as he tried to unlock the car door.

"Very well. Alana tells me you are still using crutches. I wondered if I might suggest a course of physical therapy that will speed your recovery."

"Oh so now you give a crap about how I'm feeling," Will said, face squishing into a derisive smile, "that's cute Hannibal, real cute."

"Still so very obstinate."

"Don't patronise me," he said in irritation, "I don't have time for it."

"It is the time wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"My father taught me years ago not to believe my own bullshit," Will said, "don't think I'm going to start believing yours."

"I was thinking of hydrotherapy," Hannibal walked over him and Will bristled, "builds strength while reliving the strain which can cause injury in atrophied musculature. It would suit you perfectly."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a son of a bitch?" he said bluntly, savouring every word.

"No one still living," he could hear the smile in Hannibal's voice, "so, when are you available?"

"Just give me the details of whoever you have and I'll set it up myself," Will moved on his feet, his legs beginning to ache.

"Not necessary," Hannibal said, "how about tomorrow at three? The Royal Sonesta court health club. "

"Will it get you off my back?"

"That depends."

"Christ, _alright_. Just...just stop phoning me."

The drive home was arduous not because of his waning physical ability to push down on the gas, but because he realised that, out of all the people demanding a piece of him, Jack, Purnell, Freddie, Chilton, he'd given in to the one man he promised himself he wouldn't dare to trust again.


	4. Assertif Demandant, Assertif Affirmant

Welcome to the beast that wouldn't die. This chapter quickly got really out of hand, apologies in advance for the double length but I couldn't find a natural break. Also there was supposed to be a lot more in this chapter but, because it rolled on so long, certain things have been postponed (so Bella, Bedelia and Freddie will have to wait till next time I'm afraid). And as for those waiting for beginning of the kinkier fare...I hope you can wait until the end.

(Title translation: "Ask, Tell")

* * *

><p>Chapter 4<p>

**Assertif Demandant, Assertif Affirmant**

'You see them. The holes in your mind? You see them, sweet thing. You see them cause they ain't holes to you. They're treasure hoards, right? Places to keep the gritty thoughts. You put yourself in there and hide it away, lock and key. But now you got holes, _real _ it terrifies you, don't it. That you can't remember what he was or why he was, or what he did to you. You don't remember laying eyes on his face but you remember having done it cause_ deep down inside_ you can feel that drop in your stomach. The one like going up over a speed bump with your foot too hard on the gas. You saw his face and it made you wanna curl up and forget. Jolt you out of your happy ignorance, does it? Or did you ever have 'ignorance'? You wouldn't, would you. Always know everything that's going on an' why it's happening. Well, then does it keep you guessing? He liked you, liked you _a lot_. Oh who're we kidding here, he _likes _you a lot. You worry that he might've killed for you. That boy with his tongue cut out and his blood leaking onto the books, something for you right? Might do it again too. Ha! You should see your face. And that's just the start of it, don't pretend to me. You've seen it, you _imagine_ it, what he did, and it makes your heart beat like a virgin on her first date. Sliding his hands over you like you're his property. Who knows? With how much you think about him maybe he _does_ own you. Imagined him fucking you yet? I know you have. Ain't got a face but you've imagined it. You're the only hunter I ever knew who stank of prey. Luring them in with your own bait, that's precious. You're a precious little secret, ain't you Will? You see it, you see...'

He woke to the sound of geese flying over the house, his own rasping breaths and the remnants of Garrett Jacob Hobbs' whispering voice. The voice and its words were enough to keep him lying on the mattress beneath the rumpled duvet watching the sun travel the sky, so numb that he didn't have the energy to be angry at the empty side of the bed. It was becoming too tiring to keep it up.

It was nine o'clock before he managed to force himself from the malaise he'd slipped into. He got up and moved around the kitchen by rote; dog food, open front door for scuffling paws, coffee, toast, couch, turn on the news.

_Headless Bodies Found in Vineyard, Georgia – Katie Gideon reports..._Read the text scrawl along the bottom of the screen.

Another reminder. Only this one wasn't as prickly as his dreams were. This one spoke of fitting back in to well worn grooves where at least he knew he fitted in. Will stared at the television screen and laced his fingers together, bringing them to his mouth. _A diversion, a welcome, welcome diversion. Lose yourself for a little while? You should. You deserve it._

Two men this time, if the reporter was to be believed, standing at the scene as the bodies were wheeled out through the rain dimmed green of the vineyard to the waiting fleet of SUVs, ambulances and police cruisers. Lot of good an ambulance is going to do a headless man, Will thought as he watched the rain beat against the reporter, trussed up in a waterproof jacket.

He closed his eyes and tried to bring to mind the photographs Beverly had brought him, smelling faintly of evidence-box cardboard. The memory was tinted white with hospital glare. It appeared as vivid images overlaid with words. The first target had seemed random, a blitz attack; man in a car park next to his vehicle. _Anger and hatred in the jagged flesh across his empty neck._ The second had blown that theory from the water. It had taken planning, motive against the victim. A woman in her home, placed carefully on the couch, _a gentle hand in the clean slice at the neck and the careful placement of the body, redressed for modesties sake,_ with her husband dead upstairs, throat slit from side to side, severe bruising on the body that showed he was beaten before death, _again that rage in the ragged gash, hate and hate and hate_...

Will opened his eyes and blinked. Deep breath, fingers pulled apart with difficulty when he realised he was crushing them too tightly. Now two more. He frowned. It wasn't enough.

The phone rang three times before it was answered. Will knew Beverly was still at the scene because of the beating sound of rain against an umbrella loud in his ear.

"Kind of a bad time," she said by way of greeting.

"I can see that. Actually I think I can see you. Red and black jacket?"

"Lemme guess. Katie Gideon, news reporter extraordinaire?"

"What can I say? She looks great in a mac."

"I can't believe this is what you do with your days off. No, wait. I take that back."

"I have a couple of questions. Mind filling me in?"

"Sure," she said, "I'm just going to get under the trees. Hang on."

The loud thumping stopped, replaced by the airy sound of a slight wind. He heard the rustle as Beverly shook out her umbrella.

"The one time I get to come to Georgia and it's tipping biblical proportions of rain," she said as she brought the phone back to her ear.

"Don't worry, you look great in a mac too."

"You better believe it," he heard the grin in her voice, "You were right, you know. This one was even more staged than the last."

"Tell me."

"Two men, late thirty to forty best guess from what's left of them. Headless, both this time. We found one sat against a rock in the vineyard, arms folded closed across his chest."

"Like at a funeral home?"

"Yeah, just like that. Redressed again, in clothes far too big for him. The other, not so much. Dumped in the barn where they do the wine pressing,_in_ one of the wine presses. Not sure the owners are going to want to use it again."

A rock and a wine press. Something there rang a bell but it was faint. Will scratched at his face and wished he could be standing in the deluge with them. He needed to see. _The smell of fresh rain was heavy. Cleansing. It rinsed the blood from sight. A flood to wash away all sins and anger that man could wrought upon the other. Two heads taken to appease God._

"Will?"

"Sorry," he cleared his throat, "I was thinking."

"Get anything out of it?"

"No, but...give me a second."

He was too deep down now to care that it wasn't appropriate; he put her on hold and quickly dialled the familiar number. It rang once and a half before it was answered.

"Good afternoon Will. Are you calling to cancel your appointment?"

"No," Will said, refusing to hesitate even as he rolled the word out of his mouth awkwardly, "Do a rock a winepress and decapitation mean anything to you?"

"It's what I love about our conversations," Hannibal said, "they are never dull."

"If you don't then..."

"Can you give me anything more to go on? Only each article is rather incongruous when taken in turn."

"I'm thinking bible."

"Mmm," a familiar hum that spoke of concentration; Will could see him in his mind's eye, staring straight ahead, almost sightless, eyes partly narrowed into the middle distance, "yes. The book of Judges if I'm not mistaken. The princes of the Midianites were slain upon a rock and a winepress. Their heads taken."

"Yeah," Will nodded though no one could see, "that's it. For revenge?"

"For freedom, if I remember correctly."

"You always do."

"Well, this is uncommonly civil."

"Don't ruin it."

"I will see you soon."

A rush of antagonistic realisation nagged at him. One that bit harder because he'd known already, on some level, that he was trying to ignore it. I'm not going to meet a therapist at the pool, Will thought irately, am I. _But you'll go anyway._ Will bit at the inside of his lip and quickly reconnected with Beverly.

"Sorry I was so long. It's from the bible. Book of Judges. We're looking for someone with a working knowledge of Christian doctrine."

"In Georgia? Well that's going to narrow it down."

"At least it's something."

"Yeah, it is. Ignore me. The rain makes me cranky."

A pause. Will imagined the scene and knew he was making it worse than it needed to be. _Ripped muscle open to the air as the headless corpse was pushed down into the press. Mutilated beyond simple decapitation._

"It was brutal, wasn't it," he knew Beverly understood it wasn't a question.

This escalation in the kill was leading somewhere, Will could see it in the brutality as it increased, the location and the staging as it became more daring and more militant. Personal, so very _personal_. There was reason to the madness, even if it was still nothing but madness.

"Yeah, it was. Took his hands this time too. And his genitals. Still haven't found those. The hands were stuck on the gate posts, palms up. Cuts on the body were more rips than anything. Brian thinks they might be using a bone saw. Oh and he was naked."

"They? What do you mean they?"

"Jack thinks it's a double act. The kills are so diverse, one caring, one raging."

"No," Will said without hesitation.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. If it were two the more dominant would be imposing himself onto the other kill. The submissive would only be able to mop up what was left if they wanted to care for the bodies. And why only ever care for one of them if it was a partner with the vendetta? He's purely animalistic, the dominant, it's vicious how he kills them."

"You think this is just one guy? Then why such different M.O.'s?"

Why so different_?_ Because he was doing this for a reason. The reason was righteous now but had been born out of shame and fear. That was why he took their heads, wasn't it? He didn't want them to live in the same indignity that he did. The dominant personality scared the submissive. It rebelled against him. Something had happened to him, something terrible. He was lashing out. Had been too weak to pick up the knife himself, he needed help. Motivation.

"I think he's humiliating one and saving the other," Will explained as the slots clicked together in his mind, "That amount of anger isn't contained, it's _released_. He doesn't seem like the type to share. The submissive personality is completely opposed. Like a negative. I don't think the first would tolerate the second without it being impossible not to."

"Then you think he has..?" Beverly stopped suddenly and Will frowned.

It went quiet enough that he checked his phone to make sure he hadn't been disconnected, then:

"You do phone consults now?"

"Hi Jack," Will said, rubbing his face with a tired hand.

"You know I shouldn't be letting you anywhere near this crime scene, what with the review board breathing down my neck."

"No one even has to know I was there," Will said, "mainly because I wasn't."

"Just in your head?" Jack asked wryly.

"Just in my head. Do you want what I've got or don't you?"

Hesitation. Will waited.

"I'll take what I can get," Jack sounded wary but resigned.

"It's not two killers, it's one."

"How'd you figure?"

"Because I think they're two sides of the same motive," he said, "he believes he's two angels, Jack: mercy and wrath. Wrath allows mercy to save one while avenging himself on the other. The wife in the second kill, she had old scarring, bruising, right?"

"We're pretty sure it was domestic violence," Jack conceded.

"It's all connected back," Will said, almost as if to himself, _remembering, _"something happened to him."

The man with the slit throat had been badly beaten, and not just in the conventional places. _Photographs: a face scarred blue and purple, lacerations on the face without time to scab, blood half coagulated over bulging puff-eyes. Torso a patchwork of half formed punch-welts, legs pock marked with kicks. And in between his legs, his genitals purple and swollen with blood under tight skin, disfigured and bent, one testicle popped open and unravelled from sheer brutal force._ The mutilation of the genitalia in the most recent double wasn't coincidence. Will didn't believe in coincidences.

"I think...I think you're going to find signs of sexual abuse on the guy in the wine press, pre-mortem."

"Think this was a revenge?"

"A bid for freedom."

"What?"

"I think he might have been abused as a kid, or may be a victim of rape."

"A bit of a jump."

"He took his hands and his genitals, Jack," Will said, "after the head they're the part he finds most offensive."

"Well, if it is rape then that'll be harder to track," Jack sighed, refusing to argue, "not many men report it."

"And if it's child abuse then you need to go back to the first kill and look closer at the guy in the parking lot. Children are more likely to be abused by people they know, and a killer's first tends to be someone they're familiar with. The first pair will be the key."

"There was only one victim in the first," Jack argued.

"Then you're missing a body," Will said, "and I think it's because he's ashamed of it. It was someone important to him."

"Beverly's right isn't she," Jack said incongruously, making Will frown.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This is what you do with your days off."

Like a train derailed, everything fell through the air before landing. In that moment before the wheels leaving the tracks and the debris hitting the ground, that was where Will Graham found himself. Hanging in weightlessness, a soft limbo where reality seemed suspended just below him. He could see it, waiting for him to hit. Bright, sandy ground already dented with flotsam and jetsam, smoking and baking in the heat of the destruction. The train had jumped the tracks long ago but he'd never even felt the judder, never registered the screaming of metal or the cries of the passengers.

Jumping town to town, job to job, until he found one he could be ignored in but still make a difference. _The FBI with its righteous fury and commanding respect, harbouring him like a fugitive from the rest of the world_. Filled his home full of wandering paws because it fooled him into thinking it was enough to not need more than that. _Enough clacking claws and he could fool his social senses into thinking of them as footsteps._Fill his head with murder and violence so he could use them as a coverall when the darker thoughts slipped through and leaked out like poison into a water supply, _you're just reflecting_, and not have to admit that he was so close to being a case himself that he sometimes became buried in the bottle just to ignore it, _of all the times he'd imagined killing with his own hands he could name fifty times he'd imagined killing with another's._

And now, after everything that had happened, Will found himself back in the same routine. Only everything wasn't the same. Everything was different now. He just couldn't fall back to his old life without always remembering what he'd almost had. The soft smile and gentle hands had ruined him far more than he'd thought he'd ever allow.

"Actually I have to go," Will said softly, "I, uh, have somewhere I need to be soon."

"Ok, well I can call you if we find anything new," Jack said, "or confirm any of your suspicions."

"Mmm," Will hummed before hanging up.

He sat on the couch, looking at the muted television as the news headlines switched, colours flashed. He wondered when he'd become so unstuck, so unable to imagine himself being alone for the rest of his life. Before it had been easy. Now...

* * *

><p>It wasn't his sort of place. Will should have known, or suspected, that Hannibal would suggest somewhere Will would feel uncomfortable. He had parked his old Volvo between a BMW and a Mercedes, hidden within a further slew of exotic European cars. It was ingrained into him to distrust gaudy shows of wealth. None were so present as at an elitist health club, he thought derisively as he navigated his way to the classical frontage, sporting brass plaques and immaculately bedecked doormen.<p>

The lush lobby seemed to judge him as he limped in, all marble floors and tall pillars beneath the high, ornamented ceiling. His duffel bag thumped against his side with every arcing step. The concierge welcomed him politely, a young man with courtesy trained into him as if by a whip; blonde hair perfectly cropped over a face drawn thin.

"Just take the elevator to the top floor, sir," he said, voice high and strict, hands wringing each other almost out of sight beneath the busy countertop, a twitch at his left eye; Will knew the signs. He wondered how long it would be before the man had a complete nervous breakdown, "they're through the doors at the back there."

"Would you mind..?" Will asked frankly, indicating to his crutches.

"Of course," the man didn't react beyond that, accompanying Will to the door, his walk stiff.

Will thought he seemed glad to be away from his post; so much so that he accompanied Will to the elevator, called it and stepped inside when it arrived. Will watched the floors flit past in winking lights. Two floors from the top he could no longer stand the concierge's well shined heels bouncing on the elevator floor.

"Prozac or Sarafem?"

The young man threw a glance over his shoulder which smacked of insulted embarrassment. Will didn't have the energy to care.

"Let me guess," he said, "your legs are stiff, you've been drinking a lot of water and you've been having trouble in the bedroom."

"How did you..?" the man's voice wobbled out as the doors dinged open.

"My advice? Stop taking it," Will said, not looking at him as he spoke.

His eyes were on the smoothly revealed landscape of glass, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. A window out onto the sky; high, white clouds palate-scraped across deep blue. The silhouette of a man there; a hole in the spectacle which pulled in the light as if he had lived all his days in the shadow.

He approached steadily, his left ankle still particularly sore from his almost-fall the day before.

"I would say this is rather more than fashionably late."

"Sorry, I was busy," he said softly; the car journey had given him time to both remember his resentment, try and forget it and then, eventually, become resigned to it.

"Making new friends? I did not know it was polite to offer medical consults in elevators."

Hannibal did not turn to ask his question. Things had gone beyond the need to look at each other to understand how the face was pulled and contorted as he spoke. Staring out at the vestiges of the day Will refused to look down. Looking straight ahead he could believe he was anywhere he wished.

"I don't make friends," Will said, leaning heavily on his crutches and wincing at the pain in his shoulders.

"You make acquaintances?"

"Impressions."

"That must be tiring."

"Not as tiring as being lied to."

"I did not lie," Hannibal said, shifting his black clad form minutely towards him, "I offered you something to help you get better. I did not say someone else would be involved."

"Lying by omission," Will shrugged, "it still counts."

"If you do not wish to accept my help you just need to say."

"Don't play the passive aggressive card," Will sighed; the night before had drawn and quartered him with dreams of delusional wastelands, writhing with red dripping milky eyes and rabid thoughts; now the day had welcomed him with decapitated corpses. He was too exhausted to be angry, "anyway, it's Thursday. What happened to your two till five slot?"

"I cut my caseload drastically not long after you were taken," Hannibal admitted, "it was...taxing. I dislike giving advice when I'm only able to offer half an ear."

"I suppose I should thank you for that," Will said, unable to stop the begrudging tone, "without your help I'd still be in that cottage just...wasting away."

"Not necessary," Hannibal said; definitely smiling now, Will thought, "I feel responsible."

"Oh?"

"I introduced you to Donald," Hannibal said, "and I allowed his deceit to put you at such risk that, should it have progressed further than it did, I might have lost you altogether."

"You did lose me altogether," Will said, tone shutting down, "turns out you didn't need any help but your own for that."

A group of seagulls appeared, floating on the warm wind currents. There was nothing left to say and Will was more than aware that he'd stabbed the conversation in the back. An abrasive caw filtered muffled through the glass. As if mocking them for their flightless arms the gulls danced on the ethereal before sweeping down. When Will's eyes followed them he was greeted with the dirty grey and brown landscape of reality. It stole the last of the wonder he'd been clinging to, leaving him once more sagging and tired.

"Shall we?"

"I suppose I came all this way," Will murmured, "might as well."

Refusing to react was almost as rewarding as an angry, raging shout. He found catharsis in keeping the walls up, rebuffing any chances Hannibal might have had to make Will smile or frown or raise his eyebrows in surprise or even simply look at him with that subtle understanding they'd both shared. Still did, Will knew as he changed awkwardly in a stall, leaving it locked despite knowing no one would come in. It wasn't pleasant but then he knew Hannibal hadn't designed it to be pleasant. He'd designed it to get a reaction, one that Will wasn't willing to give him the satisfaction of.

The pool was small but big enough for them alone, starting at a sloping tiled floor down into the clear, under-lit waters until it became deep enough to swim. Hannibal helped him down, the water lapping against his feet, then ankles, then calves, warm and pleasant. Their touch was close, naked flesh against flesh, but no intimacy was shared. Will wouldn't allow it.

"I didn't know you did hydrotherapy," Will said as the water rose to his chest and he hesitantly chanced taking his wobbly feet from the base of the pool, bobbing gently as he swished his arms back and forth.

"I don't. Although I am perfectly capable."

"Figures. I don't know why I took you up on this in the first place. No, actually I do. Stupid really. I need to be more careful."

"Turn around and put out your arms," Hannibal instructed, ignoring him.

"Is it safe to put my back to you?" he asked sarcastically.

"As safe as expecting me to stop you from drowning."

"Wonderful."

Regardless of the hollow feeling he clung to, Hannibal was true to his word. Will couldn't say he felt entirely at ease with Hannibal constantly out of his sight, not completely, but the man was gentle and considerate, his large palms raised flat against Will's shoulder blades, holding him steady. Will could feel the water displaced behind him as he kicked his legs, moving them both back through the warm embrace.

After ten laps he could feel the strain in his legs. A sound of discomfort brought them to a halt. Will only knew Hannibal had stopped when he drifted into him, bumping his head lightly against the man's sternum. He righted himself easily, enjoying the freedom the water afforded him, and turned to look at Lecter. The man reached out to take Will's hands and hold him steady. Will gripped him tightly.

"You need to tell me when it becomes too much," Hannibal said.

"I can do more," Will protested.

"A little for a lot, Will. Do not overexert or this will be pointless."

"And if I don't push myself I'll be on crutches until Christmas."

"The point of this exercise is not to break you."

A sharp glance. Will wasn't able to stop the words.

"Are you sure?"

At first there was no reaction. Then a smile began. For Hannibal a smile did not simply happen, it always _began_. This one filtered up firstly with the vague curl at the mouth's edge, next registering in slim cheeks as a twitch, then up, tilting the mouth further, pulling his cupids bow wide and delineating the deep lines that ran between his nose and the corners of his lips; eventually the small trio of wrinkles by his eyes padded out like a crow's foot in the sand. Will swallowed and looked down at the rippling light on the surface of the water.

"Your arms next I think," Hannibal said.

It continued as it had started. A vague undercurrent of resentful tension, with Hannibal always touching him somewhere, lightly. Nothing more than a resting of fingers against his biceps, or palms against his chest, or a soft grip on his ankles. On his back, staring up at the ceiling as he kicked his legs, he allowed his ears to slip under the water and the echoing boom of his own heart to overtake the soft shush of water against skin. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of being momentarily at peace.

Will only registered that he was aching all over when he looked up to find the clock had ticked past by an hour.

"When do we need to be out by?" he asked as he felt Hannibal let go of his legs and place a hand against his chest, helping him to right himself.

"Another twenty minutes or so. How do you feel?"

"Tired," Will sighed; _in more ways than one_, he thought.

"Then this seems an appropriate place to stop."

He gave only a nod in return. Without talking he had been able to imagine himself alone. Now Hannibal was once more here in the pool with him, his hair half dried and half slicked to his skull. His maroon eyes intent. Will fumbled his way to the side of the pool without assistance, his feet bouncing on the bottom, and shuffled himself along to the shallows, his legs trembling with exertion as the pressure upon them increased.

In the end the attempted escape was futile. He was forced to wait for Hannibal to join him, wet hands clasping the damp skin of his left forearm and the sensitive skin of his right hip. Hannibal's thumb slipped upwards as they walked together slowly around the pool, making Will jerk at the sensation against his side. He did not comment.

"So did you find your executioner?" Lecter asked, gripping tighter as Will stumbled slightly.

"How did you know I was looking?"

"You called to ask me about an obscure biblical passage in relation to decapitation," Hannibal tipped his head, "it was not exactly a leap of faith."

"I'm not on a case."

"I think you appear to be on a case whether you want to be or not. Is it anything to do with the killings in Georgia?"

"You've been watching the news in the lobby," Will said dryly.

"I had to pass the time somehow while I waited for you."

It was telling, enough for Will to catch it before it ran off without him. A wonderful note of familiarity was singing on the string between them. Will winced at the sweet tone of the vibration and hated the bitter note it turned to as he reached forwards and strangled it into silence.

"Don't try and draw me in."

"I bed your pardon?"

"And don't act coy either," Will could hear the coldness in his tone.

"I feel it is you who are acting against the natural flow. I thought we were having a delightful time."

"There's something wrong with you."

It had been impossible to put any effort into sounding malicious. They stopped because Hannibal stopped and, without him, Will found he couldn't keep his balance. Will didn't mean to, but couldn't help looking up at the man at his side. Hannibal was staring straight ahead.

"Oh?" he asked blankly.

"Don't take it as an insult. There's something wrong with me too."

"You sound certain," Hannibal said.

"I am," Will said as they began to walk once more, "I'm here aren't I? That's enough proof for me."

Dried and dressed, they did not speak. Will sorted the collar of his jacket to sit tightly around his neck, stopping the still wet curls of hair from irritating the skin. He left his glasses off as they began to steam in the balmy air. When he looked up at the mirror Hannibal was standing behind him, eyes trained on his own reflection as he ran the knot smoothly up his tie. It appeared, for a sickening moment, distrustfully domestic. Will made to leave before he worried he wouldn't be able to, stopped only by Hannibal's smooth voice.

"Same time next week?"

Will shook his head; he turned to look over his shoulder. Hannibal was watching him in the mirror, hands continuing to untwist and perfect his immaculate shirt, "No, this won't happen again."

"You do not believe it will help?"

"Hannibal..."

Will waited until Hannibal turned from the mirror to watch him with his own eyes, not the reflected facsimiles. He was not angry, he was not calm. He tried to remember something he'd been told on his first homicide case, a mother and two kids gunned down on their front porch; _focus on the facts, Graham, _his partner had said as Will stood on the sidewalk, staring,_ If you focus on them being facts, you don't have to think about what they really are_.

Only he'd never been able to follow good advice.

"It's funny, you know," he started, sitting down on the bench before the lockers heavily, placing his crutches to the side and clasping his hands, "before this all started I thought...no, you know I didn't even think. I just did. My life was just a series of doings and not doings. Get up, go to work, sleep, eat, try my very best to avoid people even though that little bit of me wanted desperately just to connect. Never worked, never does," he waved his hand in the air casually, dropping it back to rest on his knee, "got used to that. Inured. I just...it became easy, being alone. And the worst part?" looking up he caught Hannibal out the corner of his eye, watching him silently, "I think I could have gone on like that until I keeled over from a stroke at fifty, or heart attack at seventy, or went in my sleep. Whichever. I used to think about it a lot when I saw the old guys and gals out at the picture house I used to go to in the Old Quarter. Holding hands at the Sunday matinees. I would let myself get jealous and then I'd drive home with my foot hard on the gas. Get drunk and think about dying alone," Will looked down at his clasped hands and wished his legs would stop aching.

"And I could imagine it so clearly because I'd had cases before on homicide, some old man in his apartment, stinking out the building because no one had even noticed he was dead until the smell got out. Had to go and make sure he hadn't been bumped off. Only I knew that smell before I'd even get to the third floor; lonely death. So after a while I...I turned it off. I didn't let it be a part of my life because I knew I would imagine it every night, _and I did_, being the one on the stained mattress waiting for the state funeral. I kept my head down and I lost myself in my work and I turned up every day and let others into my head so I could ignore myself. It didn't matter that no one got too close because I kept the line pretty clear. Didn't let anyone across it. So it didn't matter, it didn't _matter,_" he laughed without humour, "when Alana pushed me away because I already _knew_she couldn't want me. It'd never work out. It never did. It was just part of the flow."

A pause because he knew it was something he didn't have to say, even though he wanted to; he cleared his throat and wondered why he was even bothering,

"Then _you_. You," Will shook his head, "Does it surprise you that I thought we'd hate each other on sight?" he chanced a look at Lecter and found steady eyes regarding him, expression unreadable, "Maybe it doesn't. Not a lot surprises you. Ha, I thought you were such a pompous egotist, so eager to tell me all about myself as if I didn't know. Prove how clever you are. I kept so focused on being in my own little bubble and ignoring you trying to pop it, that I didn't even realise I was in love with you until that day I came to your office after David was murdered. I don't think I've ever been so careless. I like control, I like knowing what's going to happen and what I can do about it. I like control because it means I don't get surprises. I don't have to deal with being yanked into the real world and being given a taste of what it's like for people that don't pull their hand away when another person reaches out. Because you understood me, and I don't think I've ever had that before. Stupid, right? I've met hundreds of people and you're the first one to really understand me. Enough to get my defences down and build yourself a bolt hole. I can't remember a time when I've been so carefree with just talking to someone who didn't shy away when I said something odd, or care that I can see into the dark places but can't always shake it off when I look away, or didn't mind that I don't always..."

A long, slow breath. Will made himself stop because talking was just forcing himself to stay hanging in that limbo, staring at the ground before the crash. He worked his jaw, straightening his back and wincing as it clicked. There had to be a time when the ground rushed up to meet him. It was inevitable.

"So maybe I was stupid to think it meant something to more than just me, having you and Abigail. I always thought I'd...make a good father, and you and me, we worked together. It was something I'd never given myself because I'd never lost that much control. Never given that much control away. You were good to me and now..." he rubbed at his face and hated the feeling of loss, "now I wish you'd never bothered. I wish you'd just left me where I was and carried on until you realised you were looking for something other than professional curiosity."

"Will..."

"Yeah, alright, I'm bitter about that. I am. But that doesn't change the fact that..." he talked over Lecter, clasped his fingers tighter, "...that I can't see you anymore. Because it's not fair, on either of us, or Alana," he added quickly to make his case seem stronger than it was, "and I need to go back to the way things were or...I don't know. I'll realise how truly awful my life was, and still is. I'll end up quitting, moving to Florida maybe. Fixing boat motors like my dad just to turn up dead in a motor home for three weeks before anyone calls the cops. You know he died not long after I left for good? No, I guess I don't talk about myself much. Anyway, that doesn't matter," he stood up, hauling his duffel bag up with difficulty and swinging it over his shoulder, shaking his head and setting his face derisively, "I guess this was the really long version of goodbye."

"That is not..."

"I'd rather you didn't add a coda," Will's voice was forced, eyes forward as he headed for the doors.

"William..."

"Don't. This was nice, seeing you. But I can't keep it up. I just...enough now ok? Enough."

It was a long journey home, taking rest stops by the side of the road when his legs threatened to give out or cramp up. On his return he was flooded by furry feet and wet tongues. Winston spent an inordinate amount of time sniffing the chlorine scent in his hair. He stayed on the floor beneath padding paws and inquiring noses; it was an easy escape from the anger-come-sadness-come-regret.

* * *

><p>A week later the long hallway on the fifth floor that ran the length of the faculty was being re-carpeted. Will placed his crutches carefully out of the way of workmen, tool boxes, up and over piles of carpet tiles and, eventually managed to turn off into a subsidiary corridor differentiated by a brass plaque at eye level on the wall. Will was coming to detest screwed-in, brass plaques; they spoke of old tradition which valued being permanent.<p>

_Thomas Jourdan Ph.D_  
>Professor of Forensic Sciences, Academy Institute<br>Head of Faculty

He knocked before opening and was greeted by an ante-room with a secretary behind a prim desk. She asked him to wait, so he did, outside on one of the two hard, plastic chairs set into a recess across from a dark, hardwood door. The faculty levels of the Academy Annexe were distinctly more pleasant and archaic than the teacher's quarters, as Will liked to think of his own and his colleagues offices on the third floor.

Eventually he heard voices approaching through the wood. As he stood, retrieving his crutches to keep him steady on legs still sore from his swim four days prior, Will was greeted briefly by an unfortunately familiar face. Heather MacPhillips spared him only a glance, a nod and a _'Mister Graham'_ before she walked unhurriedly down the corridor the way Will had come.

"Professor Jourdan is ready for you Mr. Graham," the secretary called out.

Forty three minutes later Will re-emerged, shoulders hunched. Another layer stripped away. Another hoop to jump through. Will wished he had the strength and the savvy to just run. Instead he clung to the last vestiges of his old life and gave in.

* * *

><p>"Well, this is certainly a turn up for the books. I would have thought you'd at least try and make it look like you were forced here. I see your words before were nothing more than a <em>brutum fulmen<em>."

It had been an ultimatum. Will had taken it not because he was desperate to keep his job but because he was desperate to hold on to something familiar; fearing a loss of all civility and awareness might break him open and let the undesirable leak out. A set of walls were necessary to keep his world in order and, within that, a cage for the things which crawled and reached out their claws and smiled.

So he'd taken the ultimatum: _Psychiatric sessions, three hours a week for six weeks, after which a further review would be issued and a return to work implemented if results were satisfactory._ The only problem being that Will thought it was the biggest load of bullshit he'd ever heard, and that six weeks was going to do jack shit in the way of helping anyone as increasingly depressed, traumatised and detached as he was feeling. He knew what was wrong, he knew what was building like a scream in his chest unable to break free and he knew, _he knew_, that if he let it out into the open air then it would never stop, but be heard from every corner of the world and answered by thousands more.

He knew that what he wanted was something he couldn't have and, somewhere in his ravaged head, knew that he shouldn't want it at all. He just didn't know _why_, and it was the _why_ that was rotting him from the inside out.

"Spare me," Will sighed, unable to sound facetious, "this is going to work out well for both of us. All you need to do is sign off to Professor Jourdan that I've been getting regular therapy and you can have the inside of my head at your disposal."

"That sounds like a very lucrative gesture."

"Don't provoke the hand that feeds, Fred."

"And here I thought I was doing you a favour," Chilton replied, his smile overly self-satisfied as he led Will along a high roofed, echoing corridor lined on both sides with offset wooden doors.

"Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere," Will muttered.

"Mmm, well, regardless," Chilton hurried on; Will enjoyed the fact that Chilton obviously didn't understand his words, skipping over a witty retort as he opened the door, "I suppose I can at least take pleasure in knowing that you had nowhere else to run. You would not be here otherwise."

The room was small, warm and decked in white with a thick band of battleship grey painted strictly through the middle, like a ribbon around a gift box. A single table, laminate wood effect, sat in the centre; atop it a jug of water, two glasses and a digital audio recorder. Two chairs sat facing each other across the chipped surface, bolted to the floor; one plain, the other fitted with heavy duty Velcro straps sitting open and loose upon the arms. On the floor sat two sheets of metal, a foot square, with a hooped chain anchor at the centre of each. The room took on a new, rather chilling slant. Will was ushered inside and felt instantly ill at ease when he looked to his left to find a man in a white orderly's uniform setting up a bank of monitoring equipment along a low bench placed against the far wall. A blood pressure cuff, a heart monitor, a polygraph machine fitted with a screed of continuous-form paper, a closed box with a latch that looked like it could contain a syringe.

"I hope you don't mind but I thought it best to have someone here monitoring us, so to speak, for my own safety as much as yours you understand," Chilton said as he took the chair without cuffs, "Will Graham this is Matthew Brown, one of our orderlies."

Will stopped his approach to the other chair to find a set of familiar, sharp, brown eyes regarding him. He kept his eyes on Brown's chin, taking in his face through peripheral vision. The man seemed taller in the small room than he had by the door the few days before, but Will couldn't tell if it was just an illusion. Thin lips smiled and the eyes held a cool warmth. Will only caught them in passing, unwilling to hold the stare.

"We've already met," Matthew said in a pleasant drawl, "here, let me help you with those."

Will allowed the man to take his crutches, leaning them against the nearby wall. He stiffened when those same, long fingered hands reached out without permission and took hold of his forearm and elbow, helping him into the chair. Will murmured a 'thank you' before blinking rapidly, still able to feel those eyes against his back.

A white sheet of paper was pushed over the table towards him, a pen at its side. He looked up as he pulled it forwards, noting Chilton's smug countenance.

"What's this?"

"Just a nicety," Chilton shrugged, pouring himself a glass of water, "would you like some? It tends to remain very hot here, the boilers for the entire heating system are just through that wall there."

"No thanks," Will said absently while he read the starkly printed words carefully, unable to stop the puff of incredulous breath as he read the fifth clause, "volenti non fit injuria? For god's sakes: 'No wrong is done to one who consents'. How often do you enjoy putting that on a form someone's actually willing to sign?"

"I promise you that the procedure is quite safe, you can see here," Chilton reached over to point at the seventh clause, "that it has been clinically tested. Seven month period, seventy eight volunteers, three control groups. Minimal fallout. I ran the data myself. It's been tested."

"But not approved," Will amended the unsaid.

"Then see yourself as a pioneer, Mr Graham," Chilton said, sitting back and clasping his hands, "there are few who would take the risk to give vital data for crucial research."

"God, you know I'm going to be here for six weeks, the least you could do is cut the crap," Will finished inspecting the form and signed it with his messy signature, "I don't need to add terminal ennui to my list of neuroses."

"I assure you this will be most interesting," Chilton did not seem put off by Will's prickly attitude, "just a little set up and we can begin. Do you have any questions?" Chilton asked as he signalled to Brown.

"No but I have a request," Will said.

"Could you roll up your sleeve, please?" Brown asked him as he stood with the blood pressure cuff.

"No recordings," Will said as he unbuttoned his shirt cuff and pulled up the soft material, "I don't want anything on audio, visual. You take the results of the tests, a positive or negative, but you don't publish details."

"That's quite out of the question..." Chilton began, chuffing pompously.

"Then you can find yourself a new guinea pig," Will said, eyes narrowing, making to roll his sleeve back down, forcing Brown to back off and look to Chilton with raised eyebrows.

The man in question thinned his lips to a line, but when Will looked ready to ask for his crutches he spoke stiffly.

"Alright," he said, "_alright_. I suppose the results are enough to corroborate my findings. And you have confidentiality, of course, it's all in the waiver. My lips are sealed. Although I find it interesting that you're so concerned over this. Are we worried something incriminating will creep out?"

"Is that the royal we?" Will laughed, making Chilton's smirk fade, "Don't be so portentous. And anyway, I would have thought it all fell under doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Of course," Chilton said with a smile that barely reached his cheeks, never mind his eyes.

"Then don't worry," Will said as the blood pressure cuff was attached and began to tighten, "I can cooperate when it suits me. But," he added dryly, "try and pull any of your psychic driving bullshit and you risk having that really ugly tie pin rammed through your cornea, understand?"

"Do I need to apply the cuffs, Mr. Graham?" Chilton asked, clearing his throat and trying not to look intimidated.

"Shouldn't be necessary," he said as the cuff tightened further, further, became painful, too much, then released with a steady relief that had Will smiling, "as long as we both behave ourselves."

"Quite," Chilton agreed tightly.

* * *

><p>It had been going smoothly, if Chilton was to be believed afterwards. It had been a bizarre screed of memories to live through, ranging far and wide and showcasing Chilton's incompetence at keeping Will's wandering mind from spanning decades instead of months.<p>

'_Keep your rod up, son. Higher than that. You won't get a bite if the fish can see you a mile off.'_

'_Dammit Graham, that's no way to shoot a gun. I want you back here Friday first thing and I'm gonna have you spelling your name in that silhouette from fifty yards!'_

Then everything had gone south. He remembered, afterwards, feeling as if he had been walking along normally and then suddenly taken a step forwards to find nothing under his foot. He had fallen, tumbling weightless down into a place that wasn't his own.

_He pulled at her white dressing gown and she fell to the floor with a scream. Crawling out from under the bed was only natural, gave him better leverage. His hands were shaking, excitement and fear, as he held her down, one hand around her throat and, in the other, the knife he had brought. She stared up at him wild eyed and terrified as he squeezed the life from her, fascinated by the way in which her jet black hair contrasted with her pale skin in the moonlight and her eyes dulled as she passed on. It resisted more than he expected it to, the knife, as it tore up through her cheek, spilling warm, fresh blood out onto the floorboards. He was pleased as the smile was brought out in her face, wide and gaping and utterly perfect._

It had only become apparent to Will that something was wrong when he felt as if his shoulders were being shaken. He looked up from his messy work, annoyed that someone had interrupted him, to find Matthew Brown close behind him, his hands tight around Will's arms and his mouth moving, voice calm.

"Let go, Will, I need you to let go now."

Will turned his head back to the front to find his hands in a different place and time. One fisted into Chilton's shirt, crumpling the fine material, the other wrapped around the man's throat, gasping lips and choking sounds trembling from above, with Chilton's own hands tight around his wrists trying desperately to break free. It had taken two whole seconds to shake his head and slip back into being truly horrified at what he saw.

"Jesus," he said, letting go and almost falling back against Brown, "_jesus_."

"You alright Boss?" Brown was asking, still holding Will close, as Chilton stood coughing and rubbing at his throat.

"I'll..." another rough cough and Chilton straightened his tie and shirt unsuccessfully, trying to hide the fear in his eyes and replace it with composure, "I'll be alright. I just...need some air and to think how this might...how this might affect things. We'll have to review this set up."

The door closed behind him with a snap and Will felt the shaking in his arms become an uncontrollable tremor. There were hands against his biceps and he was turned to sit with his legs off the side of the chair beneath the floating arm and its sinister restraint. Brown was hunkered there, like a gargoyle looming at the corner of a church roof, staring straight at him.

"Hey," he said, "you're ok."

"Don't touch me," Will knew he was whispering, barely audible.

"You want some water?"

"I said," he spoke up, voice shaking, "_don't-touch-me_."

Brown looked like he might insist and, truthfully, Will wouldn't blame him if he wanted to keep hold of his arms just in case. _No control_, he thought, you've got _no control_. Look what you did, look what you _damn well did!_ Is this what you've got hidden up your sleeves at all times? Nothing but open wounds and being so ready to stick your hand inside that you can remember the feel of a wet heat you've never even experienced? Brown retreated but didn't back off, staying squatted down with his hands resting on his knees as he watched Will pull out his phone and try to dial.

"No reception in here," Brown said as Will cursed, "believe me, I've tried."

"I need to make a phone call," Will said, hearing a hysterical lilt to his voice and clearing his throat.

"I don't know," Brown said, frowning, "you look to me like you need a minute to yourself."

Will felt like telling him to fuck off and mind his own business. His fingers tried to call a number he knew he shouldn't even still have under contacts. _Hannibal_, was all it said, sitting incongruously between _Halsey's Veterinary centre _and _Home._ 'Hello Will' he would say calmly, invitingly, and everything would spill out in a rush because he knew Hannibal would understand, he always did.

Even when Will told him goodbye.

"Now I know why you didn't want the recorder on," Brown interrupted his thoughts, huffing out a short laugh that made Will frown. He put his phone away and tried to ignore his urgent need for acceptance.

"I was...I was talking?" he asked.

"Yeah," Brown nodded, "pretty graphic stuff. Did you really do that?"

"No, it's not mine," Will mumbled, "do you really think I'd be sitting here if I'd murdered Beth le..." he stopped himself, depersonalising it, "...murdered a woman?"

"I don't know," Brown shrugged, his eyes surprisingly open, Will thought, considering who he was sitting alone in a room with, "a lot of people walk around with secrets."

"I didn't kill her," Will muttered, "it's not mine, the memory. _Christ_," he closed his eyes and lifted a trembling hand to rub at his face, "this was a...a really bad idea. I need to go."

"That seems like the bad idea to me," Brown said frankly, making Will frown.

"I'm sorry, were we just in the same room?" Will asked facetiously.

"Ha, and a sense of humour too," Brown said as if to himself, rubbing at his jaw and looking to the left, pleased, "you'll be fine. And anyway, Chilton's right isn't he? You wouldn't be here if you had somewhere better to go."

"Advice of someone looking to get a handout from his Boss isn't something I'm inclined to listen to," Will said nastily.

"Oh, you're going for the pride there, Mister Graham," Brown said, looking faux wounded; Will felt his hackles rise as much as his senses fizzed, "but you've missed your mark. I don't care what the Boss wants. I just think you deserve to have a chance."

"How touching," Will said acidly, "What do you care?"

"I was given my chance. Still taking it and it's not done me any harm. You seem like a nice guy. Give yourself a break. Can't throw it away so soon. Who knows? Maybe you'll surprise yourself."

The honesty was surprising. Will couldn't find a fault in Brown's candour, his eyes open and sincere. It was refreshing whilst also simultaneously unnerving. Will licked his lips and looked down only to find his hands were no longer shaking. He opened his mouth once, closed, twice, closed. Then he nodded, barely a jerk of his head. Brown stood up and tentatively offered a small, consolatory pat on the shoulder. He left Will sitting alone, eyes staring down at the linoleum, hoping that he wasn't simply throwing himself into the hole he'd dug.

* * *

><p>Three days later his phone rang. Exactly a week since Will had seen him last. That he didn't pick up, in the end, was inconsequential. The alert came through as he sat on the floor, sanding a long strip of wood with repetitive, powerful strokes. He'd wiped away the sweat beaded on his forehead, sniffed and then sneezed at the wood dust before picking it up.<p>

_1 new voicemail._

Persistent if nothing else, Will thought. He put it down and continued sanding.

* * *

><p>A week and a half, and three sessions, later Will wasn't sure where he stood or, half the time, if he was standing at all. It had begun to run a familiar course and he'd fallen into it because Will coveted routines. It was calming; as empowering as it was restrictive. His memories flowed out of his mind just as paper flowed out of the polygraph he had insisted they use. He knew Chilton was glad Will had suggested it, made it easier than trying to force it upon him. Truthfully Will just wanted a little help separating the false memories from the real ones.<p>

When he came round Chilton was always staring at Will's fingers, wrapped tightly around the ends of the chair's arm, beneath the heavy restraint of the Velcro cuffs. Will had implemented that further restriction, so as to avoid discomfort. Will knew that if he did anything irrevocable it would be difficult to explain as well as live with. This way, no matter how uncomfortable, was best. Chilton had relaxed considerably when Will had done up the first cuff himself and then waited patiently for Matthew Brown to close the second. Brown's was always tighter.

So far nothing had resurfaced that he could say was truly lost. The only odd memory which he could not place so far being one which was entirely banal and could have come from any time. _Hannibal stood in the doorway, eyes soft but watching him intently. He looked immovable but calm, resting on the balls of his feet. Then there was an overwhelming drop in his stomach and Will's hand went to his pocket._ Then nothing, nothing at all. That was all there was and it was frustrating to know there was more, that something was still missing.

Will was simply glad that, after every session when Chilton stepped outside, Brown spoke to him in his calm drawl which Will was beginning to appreciate. Normally only a few words, or a stilted conversation of two or three exchanges between them. Enough to bring Will back into himself, define his reality as sitting within that small, white and grey-striped box, and not with his hands lifting frozen bodies from the sand or burying them in the forest.

Distracted him from the voicemails sitting in his pocket; a slowly building collection. Will had refused to listen to any of them, for fear that he'd be too weak to resist whatever lay within. It was on the stormy afternoon after the fourth session that things changed.

"Son of a..."

Will stood by his Volvo, unlocking the door, and tried to tell himself he should ignore the muttered curses from behind him, get inside, and drive home. He managed to get the door part way open before he looked up at the grey-cast sky, darkening with a pregnant threat. Will swallowed and looked over his shoulder before pushing away from the car, using his crutches carefully on the gravel. Brown was facing away from him, hands putting his black helmet on the ground and then hunkering down beside his motorcycle, pulling the leather of his pants tight across his thighs.

"Need a hand?"

The eyes were slow to regard him, looking up to squint against the white glare of the clouds. The wind picked up and began tossing the autumn remnants about the car park in a flurry of red, orange and dirty brown.

"If you know someone that can fix it," Brown said, frustration lining his tone beneath the normal platitude as he knocked the gas tank with his knuckles, "I can't afford another call out."

"Actually I do," Will said, pulling eyes back to him, "me."

"You?"

"Mmm."

"...Alright," Brown nodded, eyes flicking down Will before bouncing back up again to his face, "wouldn't have tagged you for it, but hey I won't complain."

Twenty minutes later and the first sign of rain was spitting irregularly from the clouds as Will took the offered hand Matthew held out and was pulled to his feet.

"Try it now," Will said, wiping his hands on a spare rag from his tool box.

Purring like a kitten, Will thought with a small smile as the bike started without a hitch. He leaned to his side, resting on one crutch, and pocketed the rag. Matthew was sat, straddling the saddle, looking up at him with a closed lip smile.

"Well," he said turning off the engine, "I think you just earned yourself a drink."

"I...," Will hesitated, taken by surprise, looking down at the front wheel; unable to think of a good excuse he kept it vague, "I can't, sorry. I've got to get home."

"That right?"

The words '_Another time, maybe_' had been half formed in his mind when the phone rang in his pocket. Will took a deep breath and smiled politely, reaching for the shrilling device. Not that he needed to look, already eighty percent certain who it was; it was simply vindicating to know Hannibal was still trying to keep contact. Or perhaps just keep himself as a constant in Will's life even without even being present.

_I prefer you as a constant._

_As do I._

"Actually, you know what?" Will said, cancelling the call to stop it reaching voicemail; he looked up, pushing down his agitation, catching Matthew's eye and holding it as best he could, "A drink sounds great."

* * *

><p>"And then what?"<p>

Will handed Beverly her coffee and then went back to hammering the base onto the dog bed he was building. The floor was littered with wood shavings, rolls of yellow foam, a pile of soft, fleece off-cuts and an open toolbox with its contents strewn. The mess was beginning to impinge on Will's calm, enough that he hadn't been able to stop building even when Beverly arrived. Thankfully, she didn't seem to mind.

"And then we had a drink," Will said, rolling his shoulders to shake out the stiffness.

"So far your story is sorely lacking."

"You're the one that asked."

"No need to get grouchy," she poked, grinning into her drink as she blew into the cup, "So, are you seeing him again?"

"I didn't say it was like that. It was just a drink. Why can't a drink just be friendly?"

"Because a drink is never friendly when the person offering clearly wants in your pants."

"For crying out loud," Will muttered under his breath, "it's not like that."

"Gees, you've been out of the job for a couple of months and already your profiling skills are suffering."

"If I'd known you were just coming over for a game of insults I would have phoned and saved you the journey."

"Ha, ha. Actually I just wanted to see how you were doing and, I don't know, it's my day off. We could go do normal people things. That's always a novelty. We could go to the movies or, _oh_ go to the mall and just window shop. Come on, we'll can go experience the banality of pedestrian life and remind ourselves why we keep our awful jobs."

"Thanks, Bev, but I think my own life has enough banality for the both of us right now."

"...Did you just call me Bev?"

"Yeah," Will sighed, catching it too late, "sorry. It's a bad habit."

"No, that's ok. Just wasn't expecting it. Only my brother ever calls me Bev."

"Didn't know you had a brother."

"Yeah, a big brother. Three years older. Lives in Atlanta running a bakery. It's called Sweetie Pie. They make amazing brownies."

"Bet your mom visits him more than you," Will smiled as he pulled out a roll of thick foam and began cutting it to shape on the floor.

"Ha, you'd like to think that, but I'm a mama's girl so I get the attention. Plus I'm the one that got engaged. My brother hates when she visits, he always gets the Mom Inquisition. Anyway she loves hearing all about my work. She's worse than you."

"Didn't think that was possible. So did you visit when you were in Georgia?"

"Huh? Oh, no. I don't like to mix work with family vacation. Doesn't go down well when you're sitting round the dinner table and the news coughs up the case you're on. Makes my brother feel like a third wheel. Or something. Guy's crazy."

"Must run in the family."

"You're quite the comedian today. Or, wait...you're not weaselling out of time with me because your new squeeze is coming round are you?"

"How likely does that seem to you?"

"Hey, I work with the unlikely. It tends to jump out and surprise when you're not expecting it. So I prefer expecting it. Oh _hey_, look who it is, the baby mama."

Will turned at the sound of clicking claws against the floorboards to find Frank standing in the doorway between the kitchen diner and the living room. She had been walking about, or more waddling about, for hours now, unable to settle. Will could see she was uncomfortable but knew there was nothing that could be done. He reached out slowly and stroked along her sleek fur, scratching at her ruff. She tolerated it for a few seconds before letting out a low whine and walking towards Beverly, who had put down her coffee and squatted down onto the floor, holding out her hands.

"She prefers women," Will shrugged when Frank sat down heavily beside Beverly and basically leaned on her leg; Beverly laughed and rubbed the dog's head with both hands. Frank closed her eyes and panted happily.

"God she weighs a tonne," Beverly said, "do you know how many pups?"

"No, but the vet said maybe eight, nine, something like that. I've already mocked up the utility room as a nursery. Like hell I'm going to give them run of the house. I know puppies. They chew. Everything."

Talk shifted to work, as it always did. Neither of them would admit it, but talking shop was always a go to. Will was just glad that he wasn't the only one obsessed. _Still working on a pattern, no new leads,_ Beverly shrugged as she passed on the frustration. They shared their distaste for the media's choice of nickname, the Angel of Mercy, after a local Georgia PD leaked the BAU's suspicions that there was a religious element to the killings. _Jack was not happy about that one_, Beverly told him. Will could only imagine.

When the phone rang Will just let it, so used to ignoring the tone that it was almost involuntary.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Beverly asked after the fourth ring while Will continued to speculate on their killer's motivations.

"Uh," Will blinked, picking up the phone, checking the caller ID, then putting it back down, "no."

"Ok," Beverly nodded slowly.

When it stopped they sat in silence for a moment. Beverly watched him, playing with her coffee cup and scratching Frank's ear with her free hand. Eventually Will rubbed at his mouth and chin and sat back.

"He leaves voicemails," he explained, feeling awkward at being the one to bring it up.

"Have you listened to any of them?"

"No."

"Then delete them."

"I...it's just," Will cut himself off, frowning, "it doesn't matter."

"Just spit it out," Beverly said, watching him patiently, "you obviously need to."

"I really don't want to go here, or there, or anywhere near it. I'm not picking up the phone and it can ring as much as it likes."

"So you still haven't seen him?"

"Oh, no, we met up," Will omitted the circumstances, though he wasn't sure why, "talked for a little while," _or you talked and he listened,_ Will thought wryly.

"What did you say?"

"Goodbye," Will said, drumming his fingers on the table.

"_Oh_. Wow. Then definitely delete them."

"I will," he lied.

He lasted five minutes after Beverly left. The phone sat in his hand like an oracle. Fingers ran over its sleek surface, feeling for the commands like a cat burglar feeling out a lock's sweet spot. The thing itself was a bad memory. Will hated that it mocked him as it spoke with a voice he tried not to think was solely for him.

"You have _twenty seven_ new messages," the automated voice said stiltedly, "first message, October twenty second..."

_...The orioles have returned to the garden but there is no birdhouse. Perhaps it is hypocritical of me to say that it appears somewhat emblematic. I have left breadcrumbs on the windowsill. Perhaps they will feed. Goodnight, Will._

The first ran into the second ran into the third. Will found himself sitting, hands grasping the counter, staring at nothing and trying to tell himself he wasn't listening intently for an apology. Or that the words themselves only stabbed at his ability to keep himself defined.

_...Good morning. I trust your pack returned safely. I do hope I have not spoiled them. I cannot account for all of the meat they enjoyed during their stay being of the regular fare. Winston missed you sorely and I was forced to concede to bribery. I hope you might return this call. Goodbye._

_...Good afternoon Will. Things appear out of joint today. I hope it is not the same for you. I found myself baking two loaves instead of one this morning. I suppose it can be attributed to habit. Who knows? Perhaps the habit will become useful again one day. Goodbye._

_...I hear you have accepted Chilton's treatment. He will not stop enthusing to me about your choice. I shan't forgive you for giving him good reason to be so conceited. Truthfully I feel that Frederick treating you is as preposterous as hiring a common decorator to restore the Sistine Chapel. However, it is your preference. Goodnight Will._

_...I wonder, as I speak, whether these words shall ever be heard. I feel in a state of abjection more than on a quest for forgiveness. But then who should be so crass as to ask for forgiveness? I was once informed that forgiveness simply happens. I am in anticipation of your happening, Will._

The stilted, automated voice was silenced with fumbling fingers as it announced the next message. Will stared at it, unsure whether to be angry, unsurprised, upset, or none of the above. All he could hear was his heart beating and the ghost of fingers at his spine, settling firmly against the small of his back. Will shivered and was amazed at the visceral reaction. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply; _warm cologne and the faint hint of fire from the sitting room._ When he opened them again he felt numb, although not entirely. Nerves beneath his skin still believed the fantasy, it was a tricky achievement. One that would require help. He dialled quickly, biting the nail of his left thumb as he waited.

"Well, this is a surprise," Matthew said, sounding strangely vindicated; Will briefly considered hanging up, but the voice still echoing around his kitchen drove him to keep the line open.

"Hey," Will said for lack of a better greeting, "you free tonight?"

"Don't beat about the bush, do you?" a smile in the voice.

"It's not something I've ever been accused of, no."

"Not a problem. I kinda like that," Will felt his face heat and scratched at his neck, "So, same place as before, around eight?"

"Sounds good."

"I'll see you when you see me."

* * *

><p>The room swam as he sat back. A slow and steady rinse of cold air drifted over his arms as the door opened and then closed, making him shiver. Will picked up his drink and finished the dregs, trying his best to ignore the multitude of warm bodies in the long, narrow bar, the heady scent of cheap perfume and beer and the low undercurrent of indefinable music. Somehow they'd managed to work their way from sociable small talk to Will's area of expertise. He hadn't stopped the progression because Will, at the very least, felt at home talking about his work. It smoothed the way for a pleasant evening.<p>

"Seems like everyone's gone crazy recently," Matthew was saying, sitting forward with his elbows on the sticky table, eyes alight with something Will wasn't sure he could put his finger on, "I mean the Ripper gets taken down and then _bam!_ In comes another guy to take his place."

"It's a power vacuum," Will shrugged, relaxing back into his chair; it was so easy to fall into the teaching mindset, his het up social neuroses drowning in a wash of, so far, bourbon and rum, "Chesapeake Ripper was an alpha, the sort others wait for to die rather than try to usurp. Now all the runts are rising up to test the waters," he leaned forwards again and shrugged his shoulders.

"You don't sound so enthusiastic," Matthew said, watching him closely; Will avoided his eyes, keeping his gaze firmly at shoulder level, "I would've thought you'd relish the challenge. Need another one of those by the way?" he asked, nodding to the empty glass.

"Uh, yeah, in a minute," Will said, "I'll get the next round. What're you drinking?"

"I'll take another Wild Goose," Matthew tilted his almost empty bottle, "but tell me first, you're really not enthusiastic about your job?"

"Do I have to be?" Will asked, licking his lips.

"No, I guess not. I mean I'm not a huge fan of mine, it brings in the money. Just seems like yours would be a hard one to keep up if you didn't at least like it."

"It's not really a case of liking or not liking. It's more...a necessary evil. Anyway, wasn't really a choice. I was roped back in. I prefer the academic side."

"You're a teacher? Thought you worked for the FBI?"

"I do work for the FBI," Will said, pulling out his wallet and standing up; he flipped his badge up into the air and Matthew caught it with a sure grip. Will left him to get the next round. By the time he returned Matthew was turning it continuously between long fingers, his face contemplative. Will held out his hand and exchanged the cold bottle of beer for his badge. Will took a large sip of his whiskey and savoured the burn.

"So it is true then."

"What?" Will looked up, passing his eyes over Matthew's before looking out of the window to their right; in his pocket his phone rang. Will fished it out, glanced at it, and cancelled the call. He looked back to Matthew's shoulder as he put the phone away.

"You can see people, right?" Matthew continued, "See all their little secrets, suss them out, just by looking. That's why your workin' cases for the BAU. You've got some sorta empathy thing, right? Echo-something?"

"Echopraxia," Will refused to react.

"Right, that's it."

"Enjoy listening at doors Matthew?"

"Passes the time," Brown shrugged, sitting back in his chair and taking a drink, unrepentant, "what the boss doesn't know won't hurt him. Or who knows," Matthew smiled, lifting his bottle, "maybe it will one of these days."

Will shivered as the door opened, a man and a woman walking in, arms linked, laughing. He swallowed down his unease and tried to focus. Matthew Brown was coming out of his shell even if he didn't know it, and through the cracks Will was beginning to see something deeper than the facade Brown kept up for appearance's sake. He waited for Brown to talk, keeping quiet and observing him in his peripheral vision.

"Don't worry, I didn't hear anything I shouldn't have. Anyway, have to pass the time somehow. It's long hours at the asylum watching the crazies, listening to their stories."

"And yet you invited one of them out for a drink."

"I don't think you're crazy," Matthew smiled, eyes sharp.

"Maybe you should."

"Believe me, I know crazy. I'd say you were more intriguing than crazy."

"I get that a lot."

"I can see why. You should hear the way the boss talks after your visits. Never heard him so animated. Was so smug when he got to tell his colleagues about treatin' you. Especially that Dr. Lecter. Sounded like all his Christmases had come at once."

It was difficult to restrain the reaction when he was nearing his limit. The alcohol numbed his senses, a bonus, but delayed his control. He felt his eyes blink rapidly on hearing the name, swallowing to take the bitter taste away. He washed it down with a sip of whiskey, feeling it puff up into his sinuses, tingling against the sensitive skin. He brought his eyes to the dark brown wood beneath his glass and kept them there.

"Hey, you ok?"

"Mmm."

"Hey, why don't you do me?"

"_Excuse_ me?"

"Do your thing, you know, _see me_."

"I'd rather not."

"Oh come on. Maybe I want to see for myself, maybe I don't like to listen to rumours."

"You can't blame me for not believing that."

"Well your trick is the stuff of rumour."

"It's not a trick, it's just..." he searched for the word, taking a drink, "observation."

"Then observe me, Mr. Graham."

Eyes lifted from the table where they had fallen, finding the others which watched him. Matthew's eyes were dark, a darker brown than the table, than the beer in his bottle, the buttons on Will's shirt. Some would have said silent ones run deep; Will would have agreed, if Matthew had been the silent type. Only Will assumed it was safe to say Matthew kept his silences for something more than just flirtation and coy banter. It was when Will looked closer that he saw someone who he hadn't expected to meet; for a split second a flash of Hannibal stared back at him from dark eyes.

_Tell me what you see, Will_

"Oh I see you, it's just most people don't like to hear the truth," Will said slowly, rolling his glass in his hands. A tipped head and a raised brow was his encouragement. Will took a breath, silencing the bar in his mind, letting the pendulum wipe away, _the people, the sound, the light, the distraction_, until all that was left was the man in front of him, "You're a sphinx."

Matthew frowned while he smiled, eyes sharpening.

"You wear many skins so that no one will see just one. A veil, always shifting. You work to sculpt your body but wear baggy clothing; not that you don't want your endeavour to be seen, you just enjoy the act of deceiving them. You like people to think you're dumb because it puts their defences down, only you're really a very intelligent young man," Matthew raised a brow; Will qualified, "No matter how many 'g's you drop or fancy terms you pretend to misunderstand, I've yet to come across a hick who uses the word 'intriguing'. It's all smoke and mirrors, and it allows you to feel superior to everyone else in the room. Which is why you do that thing."

"What thing?"

"You walk too far ahead and hold the door open for Chilton so that he feels obligated to jog forwards and take it," Will said, "you enjoy seeing him obey you," Will could of sworn Matthew's eyes darkened a shade, his smile tick up a notch, "Also you're lying about how much you like your job. I see the way you look at me after Chilton leaves the room. You like walking past the cages, looking at the tigers. You're a manipulative, egotistical and mildly sadistic individual."

The spell broke as a hand appeared between them. Will blinked and looked left, the sound and smell and brightness sweeping back to engulf his senses, to find a barmaid collecting the empties from their table. She smiled at him and he looked away, unsure what to do with his hands now there was nothing to hold. Eventually the silence became too much and he looked up. To his relief Matthew Brown was wearing an impressed smile beneath curious eyes.

"Uncanny," Matthew said.

"That's not what most people say," Will said, his own smile far more restrained.

"Oh yeah? What do they say?"

"Fuck off," Will said, unable to help joining in when Matthew laughed; the whiskey was hitting and Will felt it in his balance, his hand slipping from the table. He righted himself quickly, still laughing mutedly.

"Hey, you wanna get out of here?"

"I've probably had enough," Will agreed.

"Come on."

The chill of the evening had turned to a frozen night. The pavements shone with earlier rain now turned to whorls of frost. The neighbourhood scintillated. Will, already unstable enough on his own feet besides alcohol and slippery sidewalks, was convinced to put his arm around Matthew's shoulders while his crutches were carried. Matthew used it as an excuse, Will knew, to put his own arm around Will's waist and hold him tightly.

"No way you're driving home. Crash at mine. I live just round the corner."

"Of course you do," Will laughed and shook his head, "been planning this long?"

"Well I am manipulative and egotistical," Matthew said.

"Sorry," Will knew he was drunk if he was apologising, hating the way the freezing air cut at his throat, "it's always a game of Russian roulette when I'm asked for my opinion."

"Don't worry about it. I like a man that can speak his mind."

He had reached the everything-is-funny stage of drunk by the time they exited the elevator in Matthew's apartment building. Will was impressed by the man's restraint, managing to wait a two block journey at a snail's pace, a long elevator ride, fiddling with keys and locks, and closing his front door behind them before he had Will up against the wall, tongue doing wicked things to the inside of his mouth.

"Too fast?" Matthew asked as they broke apart.

"Didn't think you'd care to ask."

"Been thinking about how you tasted since the first time I saw you."

A pause while Matthew kissed at his throat.

"That sounds creepier now that I say it out loud."

"It is a little."

"Enough to call you a cab?"

"No."

"Good."

Matthew's apartment revealed a fastidious nature. Will didn't think he'd ever seen a young, single man's apartment so clean, neat and yet still holding a lived in look. It wasn't sterile, it was just...unusual. Will found himself lowered onto a beige sofa facing a dark, dead television, while Matthew disappeared into the next room. Will fished his phone out of his pocket when it began digging into his hip and put it on the table. He put his coat on the arm of the sofa before observing his surroundings more closely.

The walls were an off cream, seeming yellower in the low light of a tall standing lamp in the corner. Following the room to the right Will found a cabinet full of dvds, a tall bookshelf in the far corner, a small frame containing what looked like a charcoal sketch. Will thought he recognised the amorphous cubic shapes, a name springing up without his consent _Otto Dix_. It unnerved him and he passed over he turned his head fully he was granted the view of a through arch in the wall that led to a small kitchen.

"You hungry?" the question came as Matthew reappeared.

"I'm a bit of a gremlin about time, it's better not to feed me after midnight," Will said, suppressing an instinctual laugh and shiver.

"Oh yeah? Then how about getting you wet?"

"I don't think it's worth the risk," Will raised a brow at the double entendre.

"Turn into a bit of an animal do you, Mr. Graham?"

"You really have to stop with the Mister crap, Matthew, you're making me sound like a teacher."

"You _are_ a teacher," Matthew saw down next to him, _close, touching_, and Will couldn't find the impetus to move away.

"Making me sound like _your_ teacher then. How old are you anyway?"

"Why's it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't," Will said as Matthew slipped his hand across Will's shoulders.

"I'm twenty eight."

"Christ," Will said, covering his face with both hands and laughing into the cupped fingers as he listened to Matthew move about, the hand at his shoulders disappearing as swiftly as it appeared, "nearly a decade. Yup, I could be your teacher."

"Then maybe I'll learn something. You got a lesson in mind?"

"I've got a lot in my mind but no one wants it."

"Maybe you just haven't been askin' the right people."

"Maybe the right people to ask are also the wrong people," Will said; his hands opened up, fingers pushing up into his hair. He felt Matthew leave the couch but his voice stayed close.

"Well, sometimes you need wrong people for wrong things."

"We shouldn't be..."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," Will licked his lips and frowned, "No, I do know. We barely know each other, we're professionally involved, I'm really bad at this. Take your pick."

"How about I pick: you really turn me on."

"Didn't know that was a category," Will said, tensing.

"Yeah, that much is obvious. No offence but do you own a mirror?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" Will frowned, smiling drunkenly.

"You should take a look sometime," Matthew said; Will felt hands running up over his jean clad calves, then his knees, "maybe you'll figure it out."

Will opened his mouth to ask _what_? but stopped, his thighs clenching, as he felt hands at his zipper; one holding the material stiff as the other quickly pulled the metal teeth open. His breath caught in his throat, brain doing a confused twirl, stuttering as a warm hand delved inside. It was just lust, he told himself, just shameless lust. Or should that be shameful? Maybe it didn't need to be either. His eyes blinked and he sucked in a breath through his teeth as he was pulled free of his underwear, the air chill against his heated flesh.

He had words of protest ready, just no time with which to say them.

"No-_ah_..." Will began only to have it strangled out into a gasping moan as Matthew took the tip of his half-ready cock into his mouth and tongued the slit roughly.

Unsure where to put his hands, his drink addled mind chose to grip the back of the sofa, fingers curled into the soft material on either side of his head. His face craned to the left, cheek pressed flush against the underside of his bicep, eyes tightly closed. _A whisper at his ear. _Will ignored it. He shook as wet lips descended upon him, followed by a soft, sucking heat comprised of spongy flesh that undulated as it sank. Will let out a restrained cry through gritted teeth, more a growl than anything legible. When the descent stopped, tantalisingly half way, Will was unable to stop the involuntary spasm of his hips. Two hands reached up to grab them tightly, -_there'll be bruises there tomorrow_, the whisper said_-,_ and the mouth retreated, dragging hollowed out cheeks up over the sensitive flesh.

He flopped out as Matthew straightened up, engorged prick bouncing up to lie flat against his abdomen. Will forced himself to crack open his eyes and look down through the narrow gap at the sight between his legs.

"I feel like maybe I'm teaching you something, _Mister Graham_," said to provoke, he knew, even through smiling lips, "don't tell me mine's the first mouth you've ever had."

"Would it matter if it was?"

"You kidding? Gorgeous guy like you hasn't ever had someone suck him off? What kind of world are we livin' in?"

"One where that injustice is apparently about to be corrected," Will couldn't help laughing at his own hackneyed line, "god, I sound like a...you. I sound like you."

"I'm thinking I should take that as a compliment," Matthew said casually as he began fisting the base of Will's hardening cock; yet Will could see it,_the rigidity in the eyes that spoke of a predator provoked._

"Temper, temper," Will said sleekly, watching Matthew through one slit open eye.

A slight hitch, showing in Matthew's eyes as they jolted a little wider and in his hand as it momentarily faltered. Then, as Will thought he might have stepped too far, a wide smile split open the young man's face. A dark stripe broken up by hints of white teeth. Will blinked as he thought he saw a shadow there, _antlers on porcelain_. There was a tickle of breath by his ear and Will shook.

"Still so sharp," Matthew leaned in to lave at the thick vein running on the underside, making Will's cock jump in his hand, "even when you're half cut and half hard."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Will sighed breathily, finding it difficult to think straight as Matthew enveloped him again; he felt oddly reluctant and inexperienced, "_unh_, can I...can I touch you?"

The hummed approval had Will starting up from his slouch against the sofa, puffing out a heady breath. His right hand found its way to Matthew's short, dark hair, rubbing through his fingers like raven fur. The detachment in his mind was wobbling loose, filling his hand with a phantom sensation of another's touch. Will couldn't stop staring at it, moving up and down languorously in time with the heightened ecstasy thrumming at his core._ A long, low sound, like a bray at dusk_. He thought it might have come from his own throat.

_The stag was in the room_.

Will closed his eyes, feeling Matthew let go of the base and slip his hand down to cup Will's testicles, caressing gently. The mouth slid lower. Will scrunched his eyes closed tighter and felt himself curl forwards. _A sensation of fingers at the base of his spine, pressing there possessively. _He leaned forwards as Matthew held still and did something down and dirty with a swirl of tongue and hollowing of cheeks. Will pushed his nose against the short, dark strands of ticklish hair and breathed in deeply. _A heady musk, an animal in heat outweighed only by the rippling scent of menace._ Will shivered, breathing out as the head slipped away from him, swallowing him whole. He unfurled, collapsing back against the couch, his hand rubbing downwards to grip forcefully at the exposed neck below carefully cropped hair. Will could feel eyes on him, watching, waiting. He could feel something in the corner of the room, studying him.

Ebony claws traced his shoulders, held him close. Will wasn't sure if the breath at his throat was real or imagined. The feeling made him weak at the knees.

"You're going to make me-_ah_," Will said tightly, "_I'm_..."

The mouth slid up and off with a soft sound, then there was a hand around him, rubbing slickly up over the saliva wet flesh. Will felt his abdominal muscles contract, tightening as the hand manipulated him relentlessly. _The hands at his shoulders descended, wrapping across his chest, pulling him close._ He bared his teeth, eyes tight-shut. He felt Matthew against him as the man leaned up, covered, pressed against him from the front while he felt the phantom hold him possessively from behind. Warm breath against his face, still turned from the scene as a hunter denies the head upon the plate. Will felt as if he were sitting upon the edge of his line of vision, staring in at his own debauchery.

"Cum for me baby," Matthew whispered against his lips.

_Shh,_ the black lips whispered, _you did so well_

"Oh fuck," Will gritted out, hips jerking; spurts of pearlescent white shot up over his pale red shirt while Matthew slowed his pace, eyes rapt, massaging slowly as Will shook, panting. The stag smiled at his ear, antlers locking with Matthew's as they crowded Will against the couch. No, he thought, _no_. Will lunged forwards, the sensation almost too much, "ah_, ah_. Fuck me, Matthew, just _fuck me_."

"But you already..." Matthew started.

"Don't argue with me, just _do it_," Will growled, grabbing a fistful of Matthew's shirt.

"God damn," Matthew said in a low voice, right hand fumbling to his own fly, "you can't say things like that to me, makes me wanna do bad things to you."

And he did, only Will was the only one who knew they weren't alone while he did them. He was rocked back and forth under a lithe body, Matthew's sculpted chest flat against his back as he panted through his nose and Will tried his best to stay upright on shaking thighs and arms. He kept his eyes forwards, trained on the sofa arm, because he couldn't bring himself to look out into the room in case the stag stood there. He tried his best to keep control, but soon it slipped, _too tired, too pleasantly hazy, too confused, too anxious,_ and the predator above him yanked the reigns from his fingers. Matthew rode him hard and fast, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud and stark in the small living room. Will grit his teeth and bore the rough friction, obeying without question when Matthew pulled free and demanded, "turn over baby, I want you where I can see you". He was pulled close as Matthew slipped back inside, a deft tongue working its way into his mouth. Will felt devoured. _My, my, what an appetite you have._ It wasn't much longer before everything came to a head.

"Shit," Matthew keened as if in pain, driving in hard, "so fucking good. Will, god dammit_. Fuck._"

Will grimaced at the feeling as Matthew finished inside of him. An odd memory was quick to leap on the disadvantage as it showed, and, too weak to fight it off, it spoke into his ear. Hannibal's words, over and over in their unknown tongue, even it was the stag-man who stared down at him over Matthew's heaving back, white eyes sightless as its mouth moved in a repetitious rhythm: _neikada neikada neikada_. What did you mean? Will wanted to ask, What did you want to say to me? Will felt coldly sober as he stared up at the ceiling, forcing the illusions to fade as reality sank back in.

It was difficult to stop the short gasp escaping his throat as Matthew pulled out, the younger man sitting up to straddle Will's hips. He peered up at him, shirt open to show sweat-shined skin, pants pulled low over his slim hips with his flaccid cock drooping over his undone fly. Will lay against the couch, trying to bring his breathing back to normal and ignore the uncomfortable feeling of semen leaking onto the sofa cushions. Matthew was watching him through lazy eyes but his stare was intent, curious. Will watched as a hand reached up to touch his exposed chest where his shirt had ridden up. Fine fingers traced over the raised, white scar tissue between Will's third and fourth ribs, below his heart.

"Who stabbed you?" he was asked, Matthew skipping the usual step of asking what had happened.

"A woman with nothing to lose," Will said, his own hand tracing up over Matthew's skin, stopping at a long, still-pink scar that travelled a straight road from his inner thigh to his left hip, "who cut you?"

"A guy in prison that didn't appreciate me not bending over when he said so," Matthew covered Will's hand with his own, looking at him and licking his lips, "that doesn't bother you, does it?"

"What were you in for?"

"Assault and battery."

"Well," Will took a long breath and let it out slowly, his left forearm coming up to lay across his forehead, "I'd be a hypocrite if I shoved you out in the cold for that."

"Don't tell me you've been inside," Matthew looked amusedly sceptical, "didn't think the FBI let felons in the door."

"No, I haven't," Will said, "but then...well, you work with Abel Gideon."

"Uh huh. Wait," an interested frown, "you did that?"

"He hurt a friend of mine."

"I don't doubt he deserved it," Matthew shrugged, "Least you stopped him talking. He used to never shut up. Anyway guy's a fraud. Couldn't stop going on about being the Chesapeake Ripper."

"And you knew he was a fraud how?"

"Like I said," Matthew shrugged, "he's all talk."

Will decided to let it slide, but filed the comment away for later.

"But then if you've been inside, how'd you end up working for Chilton? Thought he had strict policies."

"The Boss? Strict policies? Don't believe everything you hear. He's lenient on who he hires, as long as we're willing to do a little extra without grumbling and turn a blind eye when he wants it. Don't get me wrong, there's few and far between that respect him but, well, it's work. More than I'd get anywhere else. And..." the hand stopped flicking its fingers up and down over Will's scar to reach up and trace his cheek, "guess I shouldn't knock it considering it put you in my path, huh."

"Mmm," Will closed his eyes and wondered if it was the alcohol loosening his tongue or something more intimate, "that's reason enough to..."

A shrill ring interrupted him. Will reached out on instinct to silence it, only to have his hand stopped, long fingers wrapped about his wrist. He looked up at Matthew, watching him closely.

"That phone's been ringing since I met you, and all you do is ignore it. In fact you came out with me after you cancelled the call that day. Avoiding someone Will?"

"Maybe," Will said, feeling challenged somehow but not sure why; his drunken instincts flared and he retorted without thinking, "maybe you don't have me as all to yourself as you'd like."

Eyes narrowed but lips quirked minutely. He couldn't explain why he didn't stop Matthew when he reached for the phone and picked it up. Later he would blame it on the alcohol but know, deep down, it was an action born of spite.

"Yeah?" Matthew answered casually; Will closed his eyes and could only imagine how Hannibal might be reacting, _head coming up straight, eyes narrowing, hands stilling in whatever action they had been performing,_ "this is Matthew, who's this? No, he's indisposed at the moment. A message? I don't think he wants to hear anything you have to say. Oh I know so. Mmm. Actually I think _you're _the one being rude here. Well, we'll just have to agree to disagree. You have a good night now."

By the time Matthew was done Will was laughing again, although unsure whether it was humorous or just plain miserable. He stayed still as he heard the phone clunked back onto the coffee table and felt Matthew lean down across him. He did not open his eyes as he felt a mouth against his, and couldn't be sure just whose lips he was imagining when he returned the kiss.

* * *

><p>The Otto Dix drawing on Matthew's wall is this one:<p>

www . ottodix index / catalog-item / 126 . 003 . html

Matthew seems like the kind of creepy, disturbed guy who'd have Otto's war sketches on his wall.


	5. Entracte

**IMPORTANT NOTE!**

Ok, so this is a short, incongruous chapter but with good reason. I am actually due into hospital (later today) as I'm having major surgery tomorrow. I had hoped I could get the next chapter finished in time for it but I was only given five days notice and it's only about a third done. So I thought a little intermission would be nice instead, and relevant as quite a few people seemed to want to see the other side of Hannibal's phone call with Matthew.

I've been waiting three months for this (honestly NHS!) and so I'm not sure when I'll be home. It'll hopefully only take about 5-6 days recovery time, depending if it's laser surgery or not, which is what I had last time (I've been ill for a couple of years with ulcerative colitis and have already had major surgery because of it. This is surgery 2 of 3). So if it is anything like last time I'll be home in a week, and, even though I'll be hobbling about and pretty useless, I'll be writing like a demon because there will be little else to do!

So, just to let you all know why the pace will have slowed down a bit considering how fast I was updating before. I'm just hoping that the surgeon is just as skilled (if not as psychopathic) as Hannibal. One can always hope...

Title translation: 'Entracte' - Intermission

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

Entracte

It would perhaps be odd to say, but Alana was sure she could taste the fraught nature of the chef in her meal. The delicate broccoli rabe she placed in her mouth was slightly overcooked and the duck breast was dry as she pulled it apart with knife and fork. A little too much sherry in the sauce.

She didn't think she'd ever seen Hannibal be anything less than perfect; or at least allow himself to be observed as such. The oversight was incredibly telling. She thought he might have known it too, in the way he did not ask her what she thought after the first mouthful. Chilton, she thought, he had seen Chilton that morning. No need to ask where the bad mood sprang from when Frederick was involved.

She smiled and said it was delicious without prompting, of course; she would because it was only polite, and Hannibal had spent a full afternoon preparing it.

"Will it take long?" she asked.

"Not long," Hannibal said as he eyed his fork with mild censure, "I'm due back in Baltimore on Thursday. It is only a three day conference. A short shock."

"Well, I'm jealous," she said, "I think I'm getting northern cabin fever. I feel the need for sunshine and sangria on a beach somewhere but right now I'd settle for Georgia."

"Perhaps I should spirit you away somewhere soon," Hannibal said, smiling marginally.

"Don't offer what you can't give," she said tiredly, "we're both booked. After you come back I've got a fat filofax till the seventeenth of November. Paradise will have to wait."

"Paradise is not subject to location. I'm sure we can have our slice. Are you ready for desert?"

"When am I not?" she smiled.

And the smile was a perfect coverall. It was because she _wanted_ things to be normal, nice and easy, not because they were. It couldn't be nice, normal or easy because she knew exactly what was happening in the next room while Hannibal plated up the last of the dinner they were sharing together. The phone had made its appearance, she knew it had.

She looked up to the other side of the table and imagined she found a pair of elusive eyes avoiding hers. A inexplicable silhouette. Will was constantly in the room, even though she knew he shouldn't be. Wouldn't be, if he wasn't kept there by a near constant connection.

A connection she was not a part of, but of which she had caught snippets. The soft timbre of Hannibal's voice through the door when she returned from the bathroom, or sometimes as she walked towards him while he waited by the car before he pocketed the phone, or even once or twice as she blinked awake and found him standing by the window in his loose robe, phone to his ear, eyes distant. He would hang up and stare outwards, beyond the glass and, seemingly, whatever lay beyond it.

She could hear the ends of words, spelling out unknown messages, but she couldn't comment. At first she'd tried to convince herself that the calls could be to anyone, they could be business, they could be friends and colleagues...it never stuck. She knew better.

In a way she was entirely unsure what to say other than to be mutely frustrated. Because it was as Hannibal had said: they were both '_a little lost in his wake'._ Will was staying illusive and, as long as he did, he was a phantom to which there was no recourse. She was not worried to confront Hannibal for his neglect, merely that there was nothing to confront him on. He was courteous and attentive, ever ready to be there for her when she needed him.

Only...

She finished her wine and sighed. It was a useful excuse. _Why'd you do it to yourself?_ She knew why. As she stood up and walked to the kitchen doorway it was only the end of the gesture which she caught; the hand lowering the phone to the countertop, gracefully slipping the small, black slab onto the treated wood while the oven was opened. It felt like an entirely open and expected perfidy.

Will is our friend, she thought, it's only natural that he should be so concerned. It's only natural. Yet, 'natural' would surely only apply to normal people. Hannibal was not normal, not by any means; he was exceptional. Which only made it worse because, in truth, since meeting him she couldn't imagine Hannibal Lecter being so truly smitten with anyone. Imagination had taken her and placed her on that pedestal many times, she wouldn't lie. Only now she was sure that position had been usurped by another; the man-not-in-the-room but always in the room.

Their first meeting had been a charmed moment, she wouldn't lie and try and to twist it sour to fit her resentment. In a room full of stuffy old men in suits and ties and golden cufflinks, welcoming her into a place where she felt she certainly wasn't welcome or wanted, Hannibal had stood in the corner and waited his turn. He always waited, she found that out quickly. A firm yet subtle handshake and a short exchange:

"Charmed," she'd said.

"I am sure I will be," he had replied.

And they had sparked.

It had been pleasant to feel special in his eyes because they didn't seem to alight upon many people with much interest. Polite civility, yes, interest, no. Hannibal was as discerning in his tastes in relationships as he was in cuisine or clothing. She had been pulled under his wing and felt happily awash in the jealousy of her colleagues and her own contentment at being at the top. How young and foolish I was, she thought to herself as she stood in the doorway cradling her empty glass.

Now she felt second best to her own guilt, and to Hannibal's obsession. The word seemed too harsh somehow: obsession. Only she knew it wasn't. To be cursed as a psychologist specialising in criminal profiling: everyone was, to some extent, entirely transparent. It was not often Hannibal could be considered glass-like and, even now, she wasn't sure she could fully see through to the other side. He was opaque, always hiding shadows and silhouette's behind the pale.

"Would you prefer raspberry coulis or cherry tkemali?" she was asked as the oven was clicked off and Hannibal retrieved a pair of thick oven gloves.

I would prefer you tell me what you say on that damn phone, she thought.

"I trust your judgement," she said instead.

"Well, warm almond tart should certainly have a sharp edge, I always think," he said, smiling.

The baking sheet, with two symmetrical pastries atop it, was set onto the steel countertop. She watched him paint the waiting white plates dark with an almost black sauce, before positioning the tarts in a perfect centrality.

_Terrible, yet strictly controlled, OCD_. She saw it in the way he pushed books perfectly in line with the edges of side tables, or moved cutlery with minute angles to line up with plates and napkins; a deep seated need to have complete control of his environment. Before it had always endeared her to him as a delightful irony; the neurotic psychologist treating other's neuroses. Now all it did was remind her of Will, his house rife with order, seen from the sneaked peak in his wardrobe and chest of drawers, socks and shirts all neatly folded like automatons on the factory line.

Now she felt that all she did with Hannibal was try to ignore the shadow in the room. It had become worse, lately, because of Will's stubborn and entirely perplexing refusal to keep contact with either of them.

"Shall we take it upstairs?" he asked as he handed her the plate, "The fire should still be burning."

"Mmm," she hummed by way of reply, picking up a spoon and heading for the sitting room.

She did not miss that the phone was slickly retrieved and slipped into a waiting trouser pocket. It was as if Will were carried up the stairs with them as they ascended. It was as she sat down upon the red sofa, plate in hand, firelight to her left, dark window to her right, that she realised, suddenly, that she'd had enough.

"Why doesn't Will ever call you back?"

Hannibal did not flinch as he placed a few fresh logs on the fire, his face neutral. He stood, smoothing down his shirt, and sat opposite her at the low coffee table. The harpsichord sat by the window, catching the light of the flames as a sparks of yellow and gold against black lacquer. She stared at it while she waited for a reply, taking a large mouthful of tart. It was beautiful, she couldn't deny it, the sour cherries coating the base a wonderful contrast to the sweet, moist pastry.

It took the edge off, slightly. Even when Hannibal decided to forego denying her veiled accusation and skipped straight to the answer she wasn't sure yet that she wanted.

"I believe Will is in an indeterminate state," Hannibal took a mouthful of tart and chewed thoughtfully, though she noticed his eyes narrow slightly in pleasure, "still adjusting. It is difficult for him to understand the relationship between the three of us and it makes him distant."

"He's not the only one," Alana said, forcing Hannibal's eyes to her, "look...I know you care about me, I'm not asking for reassurance, and I care about you too but, well, this has got to stop."

No answer further than a genuinely confused frown. Hannibal placed his plate back onto the table and clasped his hands, resting his elbows upon his knees as he leaned forwards. She felt studied.

"Don't give me that look," she said, "the reason Will doesn't call you back isn't because he's jealous," she remembered their kiss before the snow strewn cabin, as he frowned at her and told her he couldn't be with her, "That's...that's redundant," she said, emphasising the word with a short wave of her hand, "he told me he was seeing someone else, that he was happy, I...what aren't you telling me?"

"Jealousy is never redundant, regardless of the state of affairs."

"You didn't answer my question. Will always confided in you, you knew him best."

"I believe the past tense is a little presumptuous."

"Well if you were still the one to know him best then you'd be able to tell me why he's being so damn obstinate. The two of you are like _playground_children after a falling out and I'm stuck in the middle. I'm too old for this sort of nonsense Hannibal."

"I had not realised you were so upset."

"No, you hadn't. God," she rubbed at her face and put her plate down with the other hand, "I don't want to argue about this. You know I shouldn't have to ask you but could you just tell me what's wrong, please?"

A moment of deliberation, visible on Hannibal's face as a sliding of eyes over to the left. She could see the fire reflected there. There had been times when she thought that he would be the one person in her life who would never lie to her. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Will believes," Hannibal started slowly, "that I have betrayed his confidence."

"And have you?" she asked, frowning.

"Whether I have or not is inconsequential. He believes it, therefore it is true for him."

"Can't be that inconsequential if he's cut you out completely."

"You know very well how difficult it is to gain Will's trust, and how easy it is to lose it."

"Yes, I do," she admitted, "but it's never that simple. Will isn't petty, he has to have his reasons."

"And those reasons do not have to be rational. I did not betray him, he just has to realise that on his own terms."

"Then why do you keep calling him?" she asked pointedly, crossing her arms and sitting back on the sofa.

"Would you rather I walked away from Will, trailing his accusations? And what would walking away leave us?"

"Each other."

"That seems unnecessarily cruel of you," Hannibal tipped his head, "suggesting that we bury him."

"I don't want to bury him, we shouldn't _have to_bury him. Only the two of you are making it a stick or twist scenario. It shouldn't be this hard."

"Then perhaps if you were to call him."

"What?"

"You have not tried then, yes, I thought not."

"I don't see the point," Alana said, feeling caught out, "he made it pretty clear how he feels."

"He does not pick up the phone to me," Hannibal continued, "perhaps he will for you. Then perhaps you can have the closure you are looking for."

"I..." it was on the top of her tongue to reject the idea as futile and childish, but the thought of spending another night in this limbo was just as torturous. Eventually she stood, irritated but resolute, "Fine, fine I'll call. This is really just crazy. _Crazy_."

She came back to the sitting room with the phone to her ear as it rang, partly because she didn't want to be alone if it was picked up, but mainly because she wanted to show Hannibal how ridiculous he was being. How farcical they had allowed everything to become. Will had been through hell, Alana had been through hell too, and Hannibal had suffered for both of them as he watched on. We should be supporting each other, she thought as the ring shrilled, not sulking like toddlers.

"Yeah?"

It was half shock at the phone being answered at all, and the other half shock at it being an unexpected, stranger's voice. Alana blinked, hesitated, and then did the only thing she could think of to extricate herself from the situation without losing the opportunity altogether. She tossed the phone to Hannibal who caught it effortlessly despite his genuine surprise at her action.

She shrugged, widening her eyes and lifting her hands as he gave her a chastising glance before putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello? Who is this?"

No frown, yet his eyes were clear and sharp as they stared off towards the window, left hand upon his knee. Alana began to feel a little embarrassed at her behaviour but also the outrageous need to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"I am a friend of Will, if you would please put him on. I see...then may I leave him a message?" a pause during which the need to laugh had a bucket of cold water dumped down its spine as Hannibal's eyes veritably sharpened, his hand tightening marginally around the phone itself; Alana licked her lips and wished she could hear the other caller, "I fail to see how this is any concern of yours, or how you would presume to know his wishes. Ah, then you believe yourself an arbitrator?" a sudden, disarming smile which matched the eyes only in their veiled, shark-like quality, "None that I have come across have been so interminably rude. Oh? And here I thought I was being civil," the smile widened and the eyes softened, as if hearing something from afar that pleased him, "do give Will my regards."

The phone was placed with an unceremonious click against the wooden tabletop, before being slid across the surface towards Alana by fore and middle fingers. Hannibal retracted his hand, staring into the middle distance between himself and the table, hands once more clasped. The smile was still in place, almost foolishly fond.

"Who..?" she left the question hanging, while all she wanted to ask was '_what the hell was all that about?'_

"A 'Matthew', if I heard correctly," Hannibal said, finding her eyes.

"Matthew? I don't think I know a Matthew," Alana rubbed at her arms and shook her head, "sorry about the phone I...I panicked there. Not sure why," the laugh finally broke free, smooth and soft, "oh god, now I'm the kid in the playground too. This isn't fair."

"I can think of far worse things to be," and his eyes seemed to believe it too, Alana thought, as the dangerous glint returned; it was smoothed away quickly and without ceremony, "if it is any consolation Will indeed sounded happy."

"You heard him?"

"I heard him laugh," Hannibal qualified, "perhaps, as you say, we are over thinking things."

"I told you, it can be simple sometimes," she shrugged, still feeling a little out of place, "we're psychiatrists, we're programmed to over-think," she sat down with a puff of air and a shake of her head, arms still folded; she decided not to bring up the dangerous look Hannibal had momentarily adopted while talking on the phone. It was too close to analysis.

"Come, finish your dessert," Hannibal said, "I'll fetch us some more wine."

And somehow it became as simple as she had hoped. There was the sensation of walking free, somehow, away from the burden that had been weighing upon her without reason or explanation, even as she felt a nagging guilt prickling beneath her feet. No, she wasn't burying Will, she was unshackling them both.

The tart tasted even better without her own added bitterness. She smiled and allowed herself to enjoy the fire, the sweet almond smell in the air, the idea of kissing Hannibal goodnight without the Shadow standing and watching them both in silent judgement. Just the two of them, for a little while, until things were easier and maybe Will could bring himself to tell her what was wrong. Just the two of them, for as long as either could allow it.

It was only when Hannibal had been gone longer than it should really take to fetch wine that she decided to slink downstairs and look for him.

"Hannibal?" she asked as she stepped into the kitchen; no one, and no reply. The room was empty.

The living room was similarly vacant, as was the library. Alana frowned, feeling as if she were being simultaneously foolish and toyed with. Why can't things just be simple? She asked herself as she walked towards the hallway, leading to the bathroom. No one, the door swung open.

"Hannibal?" she said again, a little louder, as she returned to the main hall and stood before the staircase.

"Apologies," she started badly and turned to see him walk from the kitchen; he looked at her with a flash of momentary scrutiny, the sort of look given to a nosy child who might have been wandering where they shouldn't, before smiling and handing her a chill bottle of white wine, "I was in the pantry and became a little carried away with my selection."

"As long as the phone didn't make an appearance, then you can take as long as you like fetching the wine," she said wryly, checking the label and raising an eyebrow at the date.

"Would you like to check my calls?" Hannibal was smiling broadly now.

"I am not going to be the girl that checks phone logs, no," Alana said demurely, a hint of derisiveness to her tone, "come on, let's open this before it gets too late. You have an early flight, don't you?"

"And so much to do," he said enigmatically, linking his arm with hers as they walked back upstairs, "in so little time."

So she would allow herself tonight, as a reprieve, because she knew she'd manage to let go of the shadow even if, despite his best efforts to seem as such, Hannibal was not truly able to.

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

And we all know what's in the pantry. Hannibal's been downstairs. Although I doubt either Matthew or Will are going to see his retribution coming.

Also, yes, Hannibal is going to Georgia...he just can't help himself, can he?


End file.
